


Body Checked

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hockey, Inspired by Pitch, Slow Burn, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Coach "General" George Hammond is given one season to turn the fate of the Colorado Springs NHL hockey team, The Stargates, around. To do so, he's going to need the help of retired superstar Jack O'Neill and rising star Samantha Carter. Except, there's enough heat between the two to melt the ice out on the rink...





	1. The Stargates

**_Prologue_ **

 

The business offices for Colorado Spring’s NHL team, The Stargates, was a nondescript building. Its walls were beige and green and the people bustled about with their heads down and their hands full of files, trade deals and merchandise purchases and publicity deals being exchanged as regularly and easily as breathing. 

 

The central conference room brimmed with sports paraphernalia and history--posters, worn jerseys, and signed balls and golden pucks hung on the walls and. On one end of the table, another relic of sports history sat: Coach “General” George Hammond. 

 

Hammond double checked the stipulations outlined in the document, nodding to himself, purposefully ignoring the impatient huff of the man in the crisp business suit at the other end of the table. The contents of the contract guaranteed him control of the roster and salary allocation—the only thing he truly cared about. 

 

He frowned at the contract length but there was nothing to be done about it. That was the deal. Grabbing the nearby fountain pen, he signed the document with a perfunctory flourish and pushed it down the length of the table towards the businessman at the other end.

 

He couldn’t help but let out a derisive laugh as the contract was promptly filed into a leather briefcase, as if the other man was terrified that Hammond would change him mind and take it back. 

 

“Give the ink a chance to dry at least, Maybourne.”

 

Maybourne, the owner of The Stargates, flashed him a shark’s smile and his fingers steepled menacingly beneath his chin. “You’re our last chance, George.”

 

“That’s _General_ to you.”

 

**“** Yes, of course, _General_. As I was saying, you’re The Stargates’ last hope; we don’t want you changing your mind.”

 

Hammond shook his head and leaned back in his chair, surveying Maybourne. “You don’t give a damn about The Stargates. This team means _everything_ to Colorado Spri—“

 

“This _team_ ,” Maybourne interrupted, voice icy and eyes narrowed, “is a drain on this city. Your star is retired, your reserves are depleted. Ticket sales are down and we barely have enough in the bank to cover your stadium fees.” 

 

Hammond scoffed. “So, it’s less of a drain on the city and more of a drain on _you._ ”

 

Maybourne grinned and shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Well, either way, General, you’ve got a decent sized salary cap and one season to turn The Stargates around. Otherwise…” 

 

He trailed off, eyebrows raised and eyes drilling a hole into Hammond’s. But Hammond didn’t need Maybourne to fill in the blanks. Without a championship, without increased ticket sales, without a winning season, The Stargates would be sold off to Washington. And Maybourne would get a huge paycheck and a controlling interest in the futures of the current Stargates players. 

 

If George Hammond wanted to save the future of The Stargates he was going to need to work outside the box. Luckily for him, that was exactly his style. 

 

He pushed himself back from the table and stood to his full height. 

 

“Consider it done, Harry.”

 

“We’ll see about that, George,” Maybourne muttered softly, watching the esteemed coach barrel out the door, his famous red phone already out and pressed to his ear. “We’ll see.”

________________________________

 

Miles away, Jack O’Neill sat at a dingy sports bar, fingers picking at the label around his beer bottle, the condensation rolling down into the label and making it soft and pliable. On the televisions above the bar, ESPN classic was playing the 1977 NHL finals. He watched with half-hearted interest as Jacob Carter heroically flipped up the puck and slapped a shot at the opposing goalie—the winning shot—bouncing off the post and rattling into the net. 

 

He remembered watching the game with his dad as a kid, back when his shoulder pads drooped off his adolescent shoulders and hockey felt like the only way out of a small town. 

 

His thoughts turned sour as he remembered that hockey could never make him feel that way again—free and exhilarating and like he was flying across the surface of the ice. Now, hockey felt like a curse. Hockey gave him everything and then, just as quickly, it took everything away. 

 

Jack wrapped his lips around the longneck and tilted his head back, taking a long, deep swallow of his beer. The alcohol was slightly warm and more than a little bitter. He liked the discomfort. He didn’t feel like he deserved to enjoy things like ice cold, refreshing beer anymore. 

 

_“Dad! C’mon, Dad! Let me come to practice with you! Please?”_

 

_Jack ruffled his son’s hair, grinning down at him and playfully swatting his backside with his hockey stick. “You’re not quite ready for the pros, Charlieboy.”_

 

_His son pouted up at him, eyes wide and adoring. “But when will I be ready?”_

 

_Jack’s phone chirped with the notice that he received a text message from his teammate, Kawalsky. The message read:_ Practice now! General’s on the rampage.

 

_Tucking his phone into his pocket, mind already on the ice and locker room and the rampaging General waiting for him and his teammates, Jack began gathering up his duffel bag, skates, and water._

 

_“Dadddd.” Charlie’s voice dragged his name out, impatient at being ignored. “When will I be ready?”_

_Jack sighed and searched for an answer. “I don’t know, Charlie. When, when—“ His eyes caught sight of the manmade ice rink out on the lake that he and his own father had built together when he was a boy. He tilted his head at the rink and grinned at his son._

 

_“Skate a couple thousand laps around that rink and work on that shot like I showed you and then we’ll talk.”_

 

_Charlie yipped and grabbed his own skates and jacket and hockey stick. Jack and Charlie had stayed up last night taping up the handle with fresh tape, heads bent low and solemnly pouring their love and attention into the task._

 

_Hockey was another family member of the O’Neill family and both Jack and Charlie showed it the proper respect it deserved._

 

_Outside, Jack tossed his gear into the bed of his truck and turned to his son, ruffling his hair again, smiling. “Don’t give your mom too much trouble, okay?”_

 

_Charlie shrugged off Jack’s hand and grinned. “You’re going to help me with my backhand tonight, right?”_

 

_Jack’s phone chirped in his pocket again and he looked down and saw Kawalsky’s message:_ Seriously. Rampage. Get your ass in here.

 

_Jack groaned and tried not to think about the suicide skates and extra laps waiting for him for being late. He hauled himself into his truck and nodded at his son. “Backshot. Tonight. Yeah, sure, you betcha.”_

 

_The last thing he saw as he pulled out of the driveway and headed for practice was his son’s smiling face, waving at him and running off towards the ice rink on the lake._

 

Jack was pulled from the past by the hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed the man—his mentor, his friend—join him at the bar. 

 

“General,” he acknowledged. 

 

“Jack.”

 

Jack tried not to think about the last time George Hammond sat with him like this; tried not to think about the gentle, soothing rumble as he said, “ _Son…I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”_

 

The General sat next to him and gestured to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Jack snorted at the thought of the great General drinking anything less top-shelf Scotch. 

 

He leaned back in his barstool and rolled his beer bottle between his hands, eyeing his former coach. “What do you want with me, General? In case you missed the memo—I know how those memos slip through the cracks—or maybe you missed the last issue of ESPN? Or the Colorado Springs Gazette? I’m _retired_. Tainted goods and fallen star and all that.”

 

He hated that he sounded bitter; he was aiming for careful irreverence. 

George sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I need you back, Jack.”

 

Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “No way, George. I can’t. I’m retired. I _told_ you. I—“

 

George cut him off, beer bottle slamming onto the wooden surface of the bar. “Dammit, Jack. Maybourne’s coming for the team and if we don’t show up this year, if we don’t go all the way—it’s _gone._ We’re losing the team; shipped off and sold off to Washington. And then he’s knocking down the stadium and selling the land, Jack.”

 

Jack stared at the man, mouth agape. The Stargates had been part of the city for as long as he could remember. His father had taken him to games; he’d grown up with posters of George Hammond and Jacob Carter, the heroes of The Stargates and purveyors of the coveted Stanley Cup. He’d aspired to join the team and lead his own group to victory. 

 

He turned his attention to the bottle in his hands and clenched his jaw, thinking of the games he’d taken Charlie to; thinking of Charlie swathed in an oversized hockey jersey with _O’Neill_ imprinted on the back, eagerly telling anyone in the stand that _his dad_ was the team captain of The Stargates. He thought about birthday parties held on the stadium’s rink and Charlie’s first words in the locker room, surrounded by a pack of rowdy hockey players. 

 

“Why do you need me?” he asked quietly, eyes darting over to the General. 

 

He leaned close, lowering his voice. “We’ve got one season, son. _One_ season to prove to Maybourne and the stakeholders that the team is worth saving. We need to sell tickets and win games. And, Jack, I need you to do that.”

 

Jack shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair in agitation. “Dammit, General. You don’t need _me._ The league’s full of young schmucks to get you a winning season.”

 

“I don’t need a young schmuck, Jack. I need a seasoned, veteran leader. A Captain. That’s you. This town knows you, son. The _fans_ know you—and,” he hesitated for a moment and before he continued Jack knew what he was going to say, could already feel his stomach rolling with nausea at the though of his son’s death being used as a marketing tool. “And the world knows your story, son. It’s—it’s—“

 

“It’s good publicity,” Jack said bitterly, eyes flashing with anger and pain. 

 

George nodded and clasped his shoulder, “I don’t want you for publicity, Jack. I want you because you’re a damned fine hockey player and a damned fine leader—a good man. And that’s what I need.”

 

Jack didn’t say anything, just stared studiously at the bottle in his hands, taking deep breaths to calm the violent roll of his stomach—anger and pain and alcohol mixing together. 

 

Hammond continued. “We’ve got a good team together. Kawalsky and Jackson are on board this season. One of our scouts picked up some new hotshot goalie, Teal’c something or other. Best damned eyes in the rink and has more focus than anyone I’ve seen in a long while. And, and we got Carter.”

 

Jack’s eyes widened and his head swung sharply at the other man’s words, beer and nausea and unease temporarily forgotten. “ _Carter?_ You got _Carter?_ ”

 

His eyes flicked to the television screen behind the bar where a young Jacob Carter held up the Stanley Cup in the center of the ring and skated triumphantly. Hammond followed his line of sight and hesitated for a second before nodding. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We got Carter.”

 

Jack slumped back into his seat, overwhelmed. He had wanted to leave hockey behind him—it was too closely tied to the loss of his son. He needed space.

 

But he thought about working with Carter— _the_ Carter, a man who he had idolized almost as much as George Hammond himself. 

 

He thought of what the Stargates meant to him, personally. He thought about his father’s stern voice and laughter as he helped Jack learn how to pass and maneuver the puck. He thought about the brotherhood and family he found on the ice—the success and challenges of navigating a professional hockey team. 

 

And then, then he thought about Charlie. Charlie, proudly telling everyone that his dad was the captain of The Stargates and how that sounded like that was the most important thing in the world. 

 

In the end, it wasn’t hard at all to pull him out of his alcohol- and grief-induced slump and back into the world of professional hockey at all. He clinked his bottle against Hammond’s and chugged the remainder of his beer. 

 

“When do we start?”

 

George squeezed his shoulder and left a handful of bills on the bar top, enough to cover both his and Jack’s tab. 

 

“See you Monday morning, Captain.”

 

 

 

 


	2. First Meetings

Jack pulled into the parking space designated for team players, coaches, and staff and killed the engine, hoping the rolling ball of nerves in his stomach would ease before his skates hit the ice. 

 

Clambering out of the truck and grabbing his duffel bag from the bed of his truck, he paused and slumped against the truck and looked up at the stadium and inhaling deeply. There was a part of him—however small—that relished being back. The ice always felt like home. 

 

“O’Neill!”

 

Jack turned at the familiar voice, a grin already on his face. “Kawalsky, you son-of-a-bitch!” He embraced his former teammate with a hearty pat on the back. 

 

Kawalksy adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder and nodded his head towards the door. “Heard the General is getting the band back together. I, uh,” he hesitated, unsure if or how he should bring up the details around Jack’s retirement. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

 

“Ah, well, you know me, Charlie. I can’t resist an encore.”

 

His former teammate looked like he wanted to push but Jack threw an arm around his shoulder, hoping to cut off the line of questions. He knew there would be more of this—more of his former life pushing at fresh wounds. But today was a day for hockey, pure and simple. Memories could wait until he was back home with a frosty six-pack to dull the pain. 

 

The pair of them weaved their way through the Broadmoor World Arena, talking and catching up. They stopped to drop off their gear in the locker room and Jack couldn’t deny the rush of warmth he felt at being back in these halls. The sound of the Zamboni humming and grinding along the ice; the smell of greasy, buttery popcorn that never seemed to leave the air; the clatter and clang of hockey sticks and pucks being racked up and prepped for practice; even the mix of gym stink and antiseptic that permeated the locker room made him feel nostalgic. 

 

There was a part of him that belonged here. 

 

He and Kawalsky found the core Stargates crew huddled around their usual lockers: Jonas Quinn, Daniel Jackson, Teal’C, Cameron Mitchell, Rodney McKay, Ronon Dex, and John Sheppard. 

 

In years past, Jack, Kawalsky, and Mitchell formed the frontline team with Teal’C an ever-steady presence in the net. Jackson and Quinn rotated out as wing players and McKay, Dex, and Sheppard floated along at the back-up line and reserve wings. The rest of the roster was filled out with reserves, but this was the core crew. 

 

The locker room was abuzz with good-hearted laughter, slaps on the back, and the sound of men—friends—catching up after a long, tumultuous off-season. 

 

“I didn’t think we’d even be here,” Daniel admitted, shrugging on his jersey. “Management didn’t offer us up renewal contracts until the last day of the deadline.”

 

The rest of the team murmured their agreement and Jack frowned at them. “Hey, hey, hey. We’re here now. And we’ve got one season to kick NHL ass. So,” he finished dramatically, grinning at his team, who were listening in rapt attention. “Don’t dwell and let’s get our asses moving to the briefing room before the General has us skating lines all night.”

 

His team whooped and hollered and pounded their fists along their lockers, filing out single-file and marching up to the team debriefing room—the place where the team watched game and opponent footage, discussed strategy, and held team meetings. 

 

When they arrived in the large room, he was greeted by the sight of the Stargates staff and crew. Coach Hammond sat at the head of the table, a pile of plays crammed into a wrinkled playbook which was covered in a series of exes and ohs red pen scribbles. Beside him was the assistant coaching staff, Walter Harriman and George Siler. Harriman was a classic assistant coach—a paper pusher who made sure the team was locked and encoded, ready to roll and always focused. Siler, meanwhile, was more likely to suit up with them during practice and skate the drills with them, occasionally throwing his stick out into the thick of things to see what trouble he could stir up.

 

On the outskirts of the room was the team trainer, Doctor Janet Fraiser. As tough as she was petite, no one on the Stargates questioned an order from the Doc. Her word was law and if you wanted to skate professionally, it was in your best interest to ice when she said ice and rest when she said rest. 

 

(Jack’s knees has learned that lesson one too many times and he couldn’t bear to have the Doc give him that smug ‘I-told-you-so’ look and bench his ass.)

 

The General looked up at the sound of his rowdy crew entering the briefing room and he stood and greeted everyone with a firm handshake. “Welcome back, boys. Sit down, sit down. We’re about to get started.”

 

Jack took his place in the Captain’s chair at the end of the table opposite the General’s and frowned, counting up the roster and realizing someone was missing. 

 

“Where’s Carter?”

 

The General hesitated before answering, “Carter just arrived. Apparently there was a locker room mix up.”

 

Jack scoffed, hackles rising in irritation. Legend or not, he expected his team to be on time when it was asked of them. He didn’t want a lack of discipline ruining the smooth functionality of his team. 

 

“You’d figure a guy like Carter could find his way into a basic locker room, sir.” 

 

“Well, normally I would, except that the staff has this pesky problem with women dressing in the men’s locker rooms.”

 

Jack’s head shot up at the voice and he scrambled to his feet, his mouth parting in shock and confusion. The woman standing in the doorway was a vision: blonde and blue-eyed with more leg than Jack had seen in a long time. 

 

And, most importantly, she was decked out in a Stargates jersey, just like the rest of the team. 

 

Jack frowned and looked from the woman to the General and back again. The rest of the team did the same, all waiting on an explanation for the woman’s presence. Their coach stood and walked over to the woman, hugging her warmly. 

 

“Welcome to the team, Carter.”

 

“ _Carter?”_ Jack spluttered, eyes going wide before narrowing and fixing on the General. 

 

The General nodded and turned to address the rest of the room. “Stargates, I’d like you to meet your newest team member, Samantha Carter.”

 

Kawalsky sniggered and spoke up. “But, uh, let me guess. You go by Sam?”

 

Carter narrowed her eyes and flashed him an icy grin. “Don’t worry, Kawalsky, I played with dolls.”

 

“GI Joe?” he asked innocently.

 

Carter opened her mouth to reply with something no doubt acerbic but Jack cut her off, his focus still on the General. He grit his teeth and clenched his jaw. “You wanna tell us what the hell is going on here, Coach?”

 

Hammond gestured for Carter to take a seat across from Jack and he called for his team to listen and pay attention. Jack watched the man with laser focus, annoyed he’d been tricked into returning under false pretenses and without all the information at hand. He really, _really_ hated surprises. 

 

“As some of you may know, the Stargates team management has had some reservations about our ability to maintain a positive long-term contribution to Colorado Springs. Now, I fought tooth and nail for one more season— _one_ more season—to prove ourselves. Proving ourselves means a lot of things: it means winning games, it means ticket sales, and,” he gestured to Carter. “It means opening up our fanbase.”

 

There was a general murmur among the team and, Jack had to admit, to her credit, Carter didn’t look down abashed or embarrassed when it became clear the murmurs were about her and the team’s eyes shifted from the General to _her._

 

“Carter will be joining us as part of the starting lineup with O’Neill and Kawalsky.”

 

Jack frowned and looked at Cam whose face was red and bowed, shoulders slumped in disappointment. He cleared his throat pointedly. “General, with all due respect to Ms. Carter here—“

 

“It’s Carter. Or Sam.”

 

He huffed out a sigh at the interruption. Again. “What?”

 

She leaned forward, elbows on the table and eyes wide, hard and serious. “It’s Carter. You should refer to your teammates by their last name. Or their first name. Unless that is,” she said slyly. “You’re just a formal kind of Captain and you refer to all of your teammates by their salutation, _Mr._ O’Neill.”

 

Jack’s eyes widened at her outspokenness. He hadn’t been spoken to like this _years;_ not since he was a rookie himself and was busy mouthing off. Behind him, Kawalsky and Sheppard barely tried to hide their laughter behind their hands. 

 

He glared at them before turning his attention back to the General. “As I was saying. With all due respect to _Carter.”_ He made pointed eye contact with her for a moment. “She doesn’t know our playbook like Mitchell does.”

 

“Actually, Captain, I’ve been studying your playbook nonstop for the last three months. It kinda feels like I’ve bene preparing for this my whole life, almost.”

 

Jack floundered for a moment before Kawalsky jumped in. “I think what Jack’s trying to say is, have you ever been so in-sync with your team members that it doesn’t matter if you get thrown against the boards and into the glass, doesn’t matter if you’ve got a broken nose and split lip, you’re willing to go hard on the ice for them?”

 

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Sam said cooly, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

 

Kawalsky’s mouth opened in surprise, a soft _Oh_ escaping. Jack rolled his eyes and fiddled with the pen in his hand. Most of his teammates remained silent, perhaps silently watching the exchange and sizing Carter up. 

 

But Jack was the Captain of this team and it was his job to lead everyone down the right path, to make sure this team succeeded and lived to see another season. He stood up and cleared his throat. 

 

“General, if I may, I don’t give a rat’s ass if Carter—who, by the way, is _not_ the Carter you promised me—knows every play in the book and can skate circles around me blindfolded. She hasn’t been with us through the hard times and I don’t want her on the team.”

 

It was harsh, he knew. But he needed this team to succeed this season; he _needed_ something good to come out of this stadium, needed the Stargates—needed hockey—to mean something good again. 

 

“For what it’s worth, Jack, she probably _could_ skate circles around you blindfolded.” The General said this while smiling, but O’Neill could see he was treading dangerous waters. 

 

Beside him, the rest of his teammates sniggered at the insult and he glared at them all, feeling like he was fighting a losing a battle. 

 

Carter spoke up again, “I’ve trained and worked my ass off. I’m as good as any of you here—maybe even better than some. And I’ve _earned_ my spot on this team. So you and your men may as well accept that I’m skating with you every night this season and I’m going to be standing right next to you at the end of the season when _we_ hold up the Stanley Cup.”

There was a fire in her eyes and, judging by the firm set of her jaw and mouth and the repeated clenching and unclenching of her hands, Carter was a woman who was used to a fight; was used to defending her place in the world. A small part of him softened towards her. 

 

The General interceded. “Gentleman, I’m afraid Carter’s assignment to this team is non-negotiable. She _will_ be playing with us.”

 

There was a general muttering of half-hearted agreement from around the table and Carter glared at them all. “I’m a hockey player, just like you all. And just because my reproductive organs are on the inside and not the outside, doesn’t meant I can’t handle whatever it is you can handle.”

 

Jack smirked and took his Captain’s seat. “Oh, Carter. This has nothing to do with you being a woman. I _like_ women.” He dropped his voice and ran his fingers over the pen in his hand ever-so suggestively. He was pleased to see her flush slightly and his smirk grew. 

 

“I’ve just got a little problem with publicity stunts.”

 

Carter flinched and he felt the tension in the room shift, narrow down to just the two of them. They were the stars of the show and the outcome of this showdown would dictate the direction of his team. 

 

Carter leaned forward onto the table and folded her hands in front of her, eyes meeting his. “Captain, I’ve logged thousands of hours on the ice. I’ve competed in three Olympic cycles and I’ve got three golds to show for it. I’m a national and world hockey champion. That tough enough for you? Or,” she said, eyebrow raised and hand outstretched towards him. “Are we going to have to arm wrestle?”

 

Jack couldn’t help it: he smiled. He took her in, the set of her jaw and, beneath it all, the desperation for him to accept her as she was—to let her _play._ That’s all he ever demanded from his team: a desire to work hard and a desire to win. Everything else, he could deal with as it came—even if it was a teammate who came dressed up like something out of his fantasies. 

 

He sat back in his chair, surveying her, before tossing his pen at her outstretched hand. “Put your hand away, Carter. We’ve got a team meeting to get through. Right, General?”

 

And just like that, the tension in the room dissolved: Samantha Carter was part of the Stargates roster. 

 

The General passed out copies of new and updated plays he wanted to focus on in tomorrow’s practice. They ran tapes of old games and footage of upcoming opponents. Jack liked the attention his team was paying to this part of professional sports. It was more than just getting out on the ice and slapping a puck. It was studying your strengths and weaknesses, your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and shaping a cohesive strategy to come out victorious. 

 

Jack _loved_ hockey strategy. 

 

After the footage of their last game of the season came to a stop (an embarrassing feat in which they’d had their asses handed to them by their division rival, the Golds), Harriman sighed and threw down his pen. “We’re never going to beat them. I just don’t see how.”

 

Jack frowned and balled up a piece of spare scratch paper and tossed it at the assistant coach’s head. “Hey, Mr. Glass Half-Full,” he called out. “A little optimism goes a long way. Didn’t you hear? We have a _Carter_ now.”

 

He flicked his gaze to Carter’s and was irrationally pleased to see her duck her head to hide a smirk. Warmth spread through him. She really, really had quite the nice smile.

 

The General intervened and flipped the lights on, wrapping the meeting up. “Okay, okay, gentlemen. And, uh, ladies,” he said, head bowing at Carter and Doc Fraiser. “I want you to memorize the breakout strategies outlined in the first few pages and be ready to put them in action tomorrow morning. Practice is at 4am sharp and I want everyone _on_ the ice ready to go.”

 

He paused and surveyed them all, puffing out his chest. “I’ll save the motivational and inspirational speeches for when we really need it, folks. But we have one season to get this right. And I expect excellence from all of you.”

 

He let his words hang in the room and Jack bowed his head solemnly. One season—one opportunity—to get it right.

 

“Dismissed,” the General said softly, leaving them all behind in the briefing room. 

 

His team scrambled to their feet, breaking out into their respective groups and discussing the footage and plays they had just seen. Jack, however, moved to join Carter who was standing on the outskirts of the room, looking unsure. 

 

He sidled up to her and outstretched his hand. “Carter, hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Jack O’Neill. I’m the Captain of the team. If there’s anything you need, just let me know and we’ll work it out.”

 

Sam took his outstretched hand and shook it, looking wary. “I appreciate that, Captain. Really.” She bit her lip and he was amazed to see the difference in her demeanor from the woman who had challenged him to arm wrestle almost an hour ago to this woman—unsure of her place on the team. “I didn’t meant to come across so, uh—“

 

“So, Gloria Steinem-y?”

 

She huffed out a laugh and ducked her head again, hiding her smile from him. When she lifted her head, her gaze was earnest an open. “You know, you really will like me, once you get to know me.”

 

He took in the sight of her: wide eyes and a stubborn jaw, hand clenching tightly at the stack of plays Hammond printed for them. He could see she was a woman who worked hard and didn’t take any shit. She would be an asset on the ice. 

 

Jack grinned at her. “Oh, I adore you already, Carter.” 


	3. Slash

Jack slapped the snooze button of his alarm with a groan, rolling over and throwing an arm over his eyes. After almost a year of a directionless life—drinking himself into oblivion, wandering the house, and sleeping without schedule—it felt odd to be waking when the sky was still dark.

 

As he showered and readied to head out to practice, his thoughts turned to his newest team member. After meeting her, he’d spent the rest of his evening with a Guinness in hand, poring over old footage of her games. 

 

He had to admit—she wasn’t just good, she was _amazing_. Intuitive, creative, and fast, she glided across the ice with determination and strength. She was a leader on her team, though the capital C indicating _Captain_ was not on her jersey. 

 

Publicity stunt or no, the part of him that loved hockey—that loved the rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction in the slap of a stick against the puck, the precision of a well-executed play—it all culminated in a strong desire to get out on the ice with her. 

 

Grabbing his keys off the hook and slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jack stepped out into the frigid morning and inhaled deeply. Sliding into his truck and heading for practice felt a lot like sliding back into a second skin, another life. 

 

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, quite yet. 

 

______________________

 

To his surprise, Carter was already on the ice when he arrived at the rink. The secondary lights barely lit up the arena, patches of light peppering the ice. Jack settled back into the bleachers, duffel at his feet, and hidden by the darkened arena. She was skating suicides—pushing off the ice and hurtling towards one line before stopping on a dime and skating right back. Back and forth she went, faster and faster between rounds. Her skating was effortless; _she_ was effortless. 

 

At the end of her skate, she picked up her stick and began batting the puck about, lazily pushing it across the ice and twirling in circles, working on her puck-handling and footwork. The drills were quick and easy, nothing too strenuous. But even from his position in the stands, he could see the flush of exertion on her face and sweat-slicked hair pushed back off her face. She’d been here for quite some time before practice.

 

Before their very, very early practice. He sighed and stood, making his way to the locker room. He’d talk to her after practice. It was better that he knock that chip off her shoulder now before she burned herself out. They had a long season to go. And, he suspected, a lot more than just hockey games to weather. The press would be all over them: a retired pro back after a family tragedy, a female all-star added to the team, and one chance—one season—to overcome the odds and go the distance. 

 

He left her to her drills and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. It was going to be a long first practice.

 

______________________

 

Kawalsky, Teal’C, and Jonas and the rest of the Stargates crew trickled in shortly after him, the locker room filling with music and chatter as they readied for practice. Jack surveyed his team appraisingly, happy to see the camaraderie hadn’t faded. The Stargates were always more family than team. 

 

He wondered if Carter resented missing out on this—the bonding, the energy of the locker room before a game, the feeling of teamwork. He’d talk to Hammond about getting her a private room inside the locker room—if she was comfortable with it—instead of a separate locker room across the arena. 

 

Jack banged a hand on his locker and grinned at his team. “Okay, boys. Let’s go play some hockey.”

 

They whooped and hollered, as pumped and ready to practice as if they were headed into the Stanley Cup finals. He grinned and hoped the enthusiasm would last all season. Maybe more team nights and weekends, strengthen the bond between them all, let everyone know there were shoulders to lean on, would be in order. He’d talk to Hammond about clearing some schedules to make room for team-building.

 

Piling out onto the ice, Jack was pleased to see his team swarmed around Carter, whacking their sticks together in a playful sword fight as a greeting. Carter laughed and was quickly flanked by Teal’c and Daniel with Jonas skating after them, a wide smile on his face. 

 

“Jonas! What the hell are you smiling about?”

 

The General’s bark echoed out over the rink and his players came to a quick stop, ice spraying from their blades. The team assembled in a straight line before their coach, awaiting instruction. Hammond raised an eyebrow, whistle hanging from his neck. “Well, Jonas? I’m waiting.”

 

Jonas’ cheeks pinked and he ducked his head, still smiling. “It’s just—I’ve never played with a girl before.” The team groaned and looked nervously at Carter, wondering how she’d take Jonas’ enthusiasm. 

 

Jack skated forward out of line and nudged Jonas’ stick. “Quinn, I know you’re about as excited as an over-eager puppy, but can we _please_ not offend our newbie on her first day?”

 

The team sniggered, but Jonas’ smile never faltered—he was the sunshine of their team. Carter skated forward, clearing her throat. “It’s okay, Captain; I’m not offended.” She smirked at Jonas and continued. “Besides, I’ve never played with someone as green as Quinn, so we’re both in for something new.”

 

The team laughed and shifted on their skates, ribbing Jonas, who was still smiling. Jack appraised Carter and gave her a solitary nod. She handled it well and the team respected her for it. Plus, it was easy points for needling the rookie. 

 

Hammond blew his whistle, drawing attention back to himself. “Okay, let’s get warmed up and then I want to see some play formations. O’Neill, Carter, and Kawalsky, I want to see you three run a V formation up and down the rink. McKay, Dex, and Sheppard, I want you three to run defense. Everyone else: puck passing and footwork drills along the boards.”

Another whistle blow dismissed them and as a unit, they took off around the ring, taking a half dozen laps around the edge of the rink, getting warmed up before the next few hours were spent grinding and pushing. 

 

Despite the extended time off, Jack felt good moving across the ice. The muscles in his thighs and calves stretched and burned with disuse and he knew he’d have to hit the gym and squeeze some extra conditioning in to keep up this season. 

 

Slightly out of breath, Jack took his place in the center of the rink, Kawalsky and Carter on either side of him. Teal’c set up inside the goalie, his big pads and mask covering his body, and McKay, Dex, and Sheppard shrugged on pennies of a different color and took up position as the defense. 

 

Jack didn’t need to go over the V formation—his players should already be aware of it, should already know what to do. He glanced over at Carter whose jaw was set and whose eyes were focused ahead of her, scanning the open expanse of ice. On his left, Kawalsky looked similarly focused and Jack grinned to himself, happy to have a stick in his hand, a puck on the ice, and a play to run—he always felt better, more in control, here. 

 

“Okay, campers,” he yelled, his mouthguard making his voice and words muffled. “Game on!”

 

He kicked out the puck to Kawalsky and his left wing took off, pushing the puck up the ice and guarding it from Dex who was doing his best to knock it away. On the other side of the ice, Jack and Carter weaved in and out, moving seamlessly together, confusing the defense. McKay and Sheppard yelled at each other, calling out for switches. 

 

Kawalsky passed to Jack in the center of the ice and he saw Teal’c lower his center of gravity ahead of him, preparing for a shot. There was an open, undefended patch of ice to the right of Teal’c, just inside the goal line, that would be perfect for a dump and shoot. 

 

As if he willed her there, Carter spun around McKay and left him behind in a spray of ice. He grinned and bit down on his mouthguard in triumph, dumping the puck to Carter and watching her handle it effortlessly, immediately pushing the puck in a forceful shovel shot. Despite Teal’c’s quick reflexes and skill, Carter’s shot still rattled the puck off the corner of the goal and into the net. 

 

Jack whooped and Kawalsky cheered, skating around Carter and patting her on the back. Jack was pleased to see Carter’s self-satisfied smile. Behind them, McKay scowled at Carter and wiped the ice from his uniform. 

 

“Nicely done, Carter.” 

 

She grinned at him and he couldn’t help but grin right back. Something good was happening here; chemistry, skill, a little touch of magic. 

 

Hammond’s whistle blew out and he bellowed, “Again!” The General turned his attention to McKay, frowning. “McKay! This may be practice, but I want to see you working out there, son. Keep your eyes on the ice and off Carter’s six.”

 

McKay flushed with embarrassment and mumbled under his breath about leggy blondes and distractions on the ice. Carter glared at him and knocked hard into his shoulder as she skated back to her position on the center line. 

 

Jack skated back to the center, pushing the puck along the ice, eyes on Carter and McKay, monitoring the situation. McKay looked agitated, but Carter was as hard as ever—eyes cool and focused. His eyes met hers and he quirked an eyebrow. _You okay?_

 

He saw her jaw tick and her eyes narrow, head nodding once. _Just get me the puck._

 

There it was again—the spark, that ability to communicate with the lift of an eyebrow and a single nod. It was a skill that would come in handy on the ice as they got to know one another better. Perhaps Hammond knew what he was doing, putting them together, after all. 

 

Hammond blew his whistle and the play started off again. This time, Jack took off down the center of the ice, hooking around Sheppard and kicking the puck to Carter. He watched in awe as Carter tilted her head, made eye contact with McKay, and pulled back and let a shot rip from almost center ice. Teal’c was late in getting his glove up, not expecting the shot, and was stunned to see the puck spinning at the bottom of the net. 

 

Carter nodded to herself and skated back to the starting point, ignoring the stunned faces of the Stargates team who had stopped their drills to watch the play come together. 

 

Jack banged his stick on the ice in excitement and admiration, skating over to knock his helmeted-head against Carter’s happily. “Yeah, Carter!” 

 

He admired and respected a player who knew when they were feeling hot, knew when they had the defense beat and were having their way. Planned out plays and spreading the defense only worked so far; at some point, you needed a player who understood the game itself. 

 

Carter got it.

 

Hammond blew the whistle, calming down the hoots and hollers, and turned his eyes to McKay who was frowning, mouth parted and looking between the goal where Teal’c was passing the puck to Kawalsky to reset the play. 

 

“McKay! You planning on playing defense any time today? Because if not, we’ll get Quinn in here.”

 

McKay spit out his mouthguard. “Oh come on, General. Who takes a shot on the first pass from center ice during _practice?_ It was a lucky shot!”

 

Carter didn’t say anything but Hammond walked out onto the ice to get in McKay’s face. “I don’t give a damn if it’s lucky or not, it’s a point on the board, it’s _results._ And if you don’t start playing defense now, it’s going to be a _long_ season for you on the bench. Understood?”

 

McKay flushed with embarrassment at being dressed down in front of the team and on the first practice but nodded and muttered. “Yes, coach.”

 

Hammond blew his whistle and nodded. “Again!”

 

Jack knocked the puck around, passing to Kawalsky and skating off to the opposite end of the rink, drawing the defense with him. Kawalsky had the puck batted away for a moment by Dex but Carter chased it down and recovered, eyes up and scanning the available players. He caught her eye and he faked going back up to center ice before abruptly turning on his blade and cutting back towards the net. 

 

She grinned and extended her arm back to drop him the puck when—

 

_Crack._

 

Carter’s stick fell to the ice with a clatter and she cried out, grabbing at her wrist. Jack didn’t see what happened but Hammond was out on the ice and the rest of the Stargates team, even the normally even-keeled Teal’c, were streaming up to McKay, faces red and angry. 

 

It didn’t take much for him to put it together: McKay had slashed at Carter’s wrist—an illegal and cheap shot during the game and something that had no place in a team scrimmage. 

 

Jack pushed his team members back and let Hammond deal with McKay. He heard the phrase, “Get off my ice!” bellowed out and saw McKay kick off his gear and head for the locker room. But Jack was busy checking on Carter.

 

He reached for her wrist but she snatched it back and leaned down to grab her dropped stick. Jack frowned. “Hey, Carter. You need Fraiser to take a look at that? It sounded bad.”

 

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes, wrist still cradled to her chest. “I’m fine, Cap.”

 

He skated alongside her, not allowing her to escape. “It’s okay if you aren’t, Sam. It’s the first practice; don’t be a hero.”

 

Carter spun on her skates and glared. “I said that I was fine. Let’s run the play again.”

 

She took off towards center ice and he frowned after her, eyes meeting Hammond’s across the ice. The General lifted the whistle to his lips and blew. “Last time for the first line and then let’s get Mitchell, Jackson, and Quinn in here to run a few.”

 

The rest of practice went off without a hitch—smooth and exhausting. He rode Carter’s heels the entire practice, eyes watching the way she had switched handling, favoring her left hand instead of her right. He’d be impressed she was ambidextrous if he wasn’t so damned concerned she was playing the martyr. 

 

Hammond drilled them hard, ran them through footwork and puck-handling drills, had them skating until he wanted to throw up. But, he thought proudly, his team hung in there and answered every call, every demand. 

 

With pride, they trudged off to the locker room, dripping with sweat and skin flush with exertion. McKay was conspicuously absent, his locker room empty. Jack sighed. He’d have to talk with Hammond at the next team meeting and get that sorted—it wouldn’t do to have jealousy miring the potential success of the team. 

 

After showering and slipping back into his civilian clothes, his practice jersey and skates stuffed into his duffel bag, Jack said his goodbyes, confirmed the next few practices with Hammond, and headed out. 

 

Across the hall from the Stargates locker room, he stopped and stood before the closet that Carter had been assigned. He thought back to the way she continued to cradle her wrist to her chest and the flash of pain on her face and that sharp, visceral cry of pain. He thought back to her flushed face an hour before practice was meant to start, he thought about the way she pushed herself with suicides; he thought about that chip on her shoulder. 

 

There was no choice.

 

He knocked on the door and heard the clank and clamor of something being dropped and Carter’s voice swearing before the door cracked open. She stood before him, dressed in jeans and an old, ratty junior NHL league shirt, her feet bare. 

 

“Captain! Did you, uh, need something?”

 

Over her shoulder, he saw sports bandage and tape on the bench and he sighed, pushing his way in and straddling the bench, patting the wood in front of him and grabbing the bandage. 

 

“Sit down, Carter.”

 

She swallowed hard but obeyed his command, sitting opposite of him. He held his hand out, wordlessly, and she winced and extended her wrist. It was red and swollen and looked painful—standard slash injury. 

 

“McKay shouldn’t have done this,” he started, unrolling the bandage and prodding at her skin gently, pulling back when she hissed in pain. “It’s not broken,” he decided, beginning the wrap around her wrist. 

 

“I know it’s not,” she said sharply. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

 

He clipped the bandage in place and reached for the sports tape to stabilize her wrist. He’d done this enough over the years that he was an old hand at wrapping wrists and ankles. They sat in silence, his fingers dancing over her swollen wrist, gently wrapping and adjusting. 

 

He leaned down and used his teeth to rip the tape, his nose brushing over her skin. She inhale sharply and jerked her wrist back. He straightened and raised his eyebrows before shaking his head and tucking the bandage and tape into the side pocket of her duffel. 

 

“You did good today, Carter. Great, in fact.” 

 

She _was_ great—intuitive and skilled. And their skills paired off well together. Where Jack was strong and decisive, Carter was graceful and smart, anticipating his move before he even knew he was doing it. Judging from the pleased expression in Hammond’s eyes, he knew it, too. 

 

She beamed at him, chin lifted defiantly. “Thank you, Captain.”

 

“But,” he continued, eyes dropping to her wrapped wrist. “I can’t have you exhausting yourself or burning out.”

 

“I’m not—“ she started, defensive and voice raised.

 

He raised his hand to stop her. “Ack! Carter! Just listen to me for a second.” He took a deep breath and she fell silent, eyes dropping and he could see that she was waiting for a dressing down. 

 

“I don’t know what your experiences with teams were like before the Stargates, but we don’t roll with this lone wolf crap. You practice with the team when practice is scheduled; not an hour before. You rely on the team; if someone’s giving you crap, you come to me or Hammond. And,” he continued, poking gently at her wrist. “If you’re hurt, you get your ass to Fraiser’s and you get it treated.”

 

She shook her head, lips twisting. “You don’t understand. It’s not that easy for me.”

 

“Why?” he asked.

 

She stared at him in disbelief. “ _Why?_ Because I’m a woman! Because I’m the newbie. You don’t know what it’s like to have your abilities written off before you’ve even had a chance. You think McKay would have slashed a _male_ rookie who scored on him? Or would he have slapped him on the back and congratulated him?”

 

Jack sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “You’re right.” Her head shot up in surprise and he smirked at her. “Hey, I can admit when I’m wrong.” They shared a smile and then he continued. “But, Carter, we’ll deal with McKay, okay? The Stargates, we’re not just a hockey team. We’re a _family._ And, it may not have been my decision, but for better or worse, you’re part of that family. And we take care of each other, okay? No one gets left behind.”

 

She ducked her head and he let her have a moment to process what he said, process what it meant to be part of the Stargates. Carter looked up at him, blue eyes wide and sincere, a light sheen of tears showing, and she nodded at him. 

 

“Understood, Captain.”

 

He stood and hiked his duffel on his shoulder, rolling his eyes and hoping to break the slight awkwardness of the moment. “And for God’s sake, Carter, drop the ‘Captain’ crap. This isn’t the military.”

 

She stood as well, grabbing her bag and slipping her feet into her boots. Eyes mischievous and lips twisted into a smirk, she nodded. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

 

His bark of laughter echoed in the concrete tunnels as they left the arena together—the Captain and his rookie second. 

 


	4. game on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updating. I was agonizing over how to move this thing along and get to the individual scenes I can see in my head. I'm constantly debating between trying to make these connected, clear narratives and just posting inter-connected one-shots. BUT FOR NOW, we have Game 1. There will be a little less hockey moving forward (but obviously, this is a hockey AU) and more team dynamics and more Sam/Jack. Thanks for hanging around and please let me know what you think!

Coach Hammond stood tall and proud on the outskirts of the arena, watching his team cool down together on the ice. Camaraderie and laughter passed as easily between them as the puck. After weeks of practice and a handful of two- and three-a-days, Hammond finally felt like the team had come together; had finally accepted Carter into the fold as one of their own; had finally 

 

Their first regular season game was around the corner—just a few days away—and Hammond felt his team was as ready as they were going to be. Press passes were all accounted for and, as a seasoned veteran of the NHL, he knew there was a hell of a story here on the Stargates’ ice: a team fighting for their franchise’s life, led by a former superstar and grieving father whose downward spiral and tragedy was splashed over ESPN’s front pages only a year or so ago, and a female player, the daughter of legendary player Jacob Carter, to boot. 

 

Hammond lifted the whistle to his lips, preparing to bring the team in and dismiss them for the day with orders to take it easy over the weekend and rest up before the game when he heard footsteps behind him and a loud clearing of a throat.

 

“So,” Maybourne’s voice drawled out, smug and lazy. “This is the hope for the Stargates’ future.” On the ice, Carter and O’Neill and Kawalsky were leaning against the barricade, watching in amusement, as Daniel, Jonas, Sheppard, and Dex wield their hockey sticks as swords, dramatically falling to the ice with each jab and slash. 

 

Hammond groaned internally, wishing Maybourne had popped in for a visit when the team was running formation exercises or suicides or puck-passing drills—anything to demonstrate their prowess on the ice and not at recreating a scene from King Arthur’s court. 

 

Maybourne snorted beside him, derisive as ever. “Honestly, George, when you said you were going to prove me wrong I expected more than someone as washed up as O’Neill. And Carter?” He _pffted_ and waved a hand in sharp dismissal. “Publicity stunt.”

 

Drawing himself up and puffing his chest up in a way that reminded him of intimidating Russian goalies back in his heyday, Hammond faced Maybourne and scowled, fists clenched at his side. “Publicity stunt or no, washed up or no, that’s the team that’s going to win the Stanley Cup. That,” he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Is the team that will put asses in those seats.” 

 

A cold, crooked smile crossed the other man’s face and he straightened his crisp blue suit. “I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

 

A loud bark of laughter interrupted the dull buzz of noise in the arena and both men turned towards the ice to see Carter standing over McKay, her stick on his chest pinning him down to the ice and smirking. 

 

They watched as O’Neill called her off and she pushed her skates hard into the ice to spray McKay in the face with a shower of shredded ice. She skated gracefully back to her place at O’Neill’s side and O’Neill leaned down and said something in her ear that made her laugh and turn her face up to his, reaching up to high-five her captain proudly.

 

Maybourne turned to Hammond with a raised eyebrow. “Well, maybe the press will have more to talk about than they think.”

 

With another meaningful look to the rookie and team captain who _were_ standing rather close, shoulders brushing, and hockey sticks knocking playfully and without conscious thought, Maybourne gave the head coach a mock salute. “See you at the game, _General.”_

 

When Hammond did blow his whistle, it was with more gusto and anger than he intended. He really, really wanted to win. But more than anything, he wanted to wipe the smug look off of Harry Maybourne’s face. For now, they had a game to play—and win.

 

____________________________

 

 

Jack stared at his team mates, dressed head-to-toe in sharp Stargates jerseys and thick hockey padding. Wrists and sticks had been taped, laces and skates were tied tight, and mouthguards were being chewed nervously—it was game day. 

 

His team piled onto the locker room benches, sticks bouncing from hand to hand and pucks being twirled in their hands, and all of them—even Carter, who had snuck in after everyone had been dressed and declared ready—were looking to him for words of encouragement and inspiration. He was their captain and he had to lead them.

 

Except, he really, _really_ wasn’t much for words. 

 

He stood before his team and banged a hand on the lockers, rattling them loudly and calling attention to him. The team quieted and stared. He cleared his throat and stared them down. 

 

“Pass the puck. Score. Kick ass.” He grinned. “Any questions?”

 

The team hooted and hollered, immediately standing and circling him, lifting their sticks in the air and clanging them in a gesture of camaraderie and to make noise and psych themselves up. It was the type of energy and rush he had missed so terribly over the past year. He remembered the way it felt to skate out onto the ice to the roar of the crowd and looking over into the family and friends section to see Charlie pressed up against the glass and screaming his head off for him. 

 

He let himself feel the loss for a moment—let the grief almost consume him for a second as he remembered his son’s tiny fists pounding on the glass and pulling at his father’s jersey proudly, telling everyone in the stands who would listen that he was an _O’Neill._

 

And then a hand on his forearm pulled him back from the brink and he blinked at the empty locker room to find only himself and Carter left. She was looking at him with concern, head tilted and eyes searching. 

 

“Carter?”

 

She squeezed his arm and stepped back, satisfied. “Pass, score, kick ass.”

 

For a moment, Jack saw a flash of Charlie in his rookie’s eyes: eager excitement, concern for him, and a passionate love of the game. His heart felt unexpectedly tender and bruised in a way that hadn’t since Hammond pulled him out of that dive bar and invited him back into the world of hockey. 

 

He had a fleeting thought that Charlie and Carter would get along rather well.

 

“Captain?”

 

Jack shook his head and let himself come rushing back to the moment, let the sound of the arena and crowd fill him up, let the excitement of the impending game—the energy, the physicality, the strategy—flow back into his veins. 

 

He lightly punched Carter on the shoulder and ushered her towards the locker room exit and into the tunnel that led to the rink. “C’mon, Carter, stop dallying.” She rolled her eyes at him but nodded, joining him at his side.

 

They walked on their skates to the edge of the tunnel, prepared to skate out onto the ice, when Jack noticed Carter’s hesitation at the edge. 

 

“Sam?”

 

She turned wide eyes on him and for the first time, O’Neill was reminded she may not be a rookie but it was the first time she was putting herself solely into a male-dominated game and there was a particular pressure on her performance tonight. 

 

He watched as she swallowed and closed her eyes, the roar of the crowd almost overwhelming from their position. She slid the tip of her skate onto the ice and exhaled sharply. “It’s—it’s _everything._ It’s beautiful.”

 

Not nerves at all—reverence, then. This made him feel unexpectedly soft towards the woman who was quickly becoming his right hand man, erm, woman. He had once stood in this very spot on the day of his very first game and felt like he was approaching something holy and sacred. Perhaps, for Carter, too, this was something to be savored and cherished. 

 

But there wasn’t time for cherishing and he rolled his eyes and, with a solid hand to the small of her back, he pushed Carter out onto the ice. “Let’s go, Carter!”

 

She tumbled for a minute and then scowled at him, quickly catching her feet on the ice and joining him at his side and then picking up pace and leaving him in a spray of ice. On an abrupt turn on her blade, she faced him and skated backwards, sticking her tongue out at him.

 

He laughed, shaking his head, and circled his team, checking in on everyone’s warm-ups. The sound of the announcer blasting their names over the PA system and hear the corresponding cheers of approval made his blood pump faster, made the adrenaline rush. 

 

(He took a particular pleasure in watching Sam’s face flush pink when the crowd lost their minds at her name and he noticed more than one little girl in the stands who were holding _Carter Is My Hero_ and _Girls in Hockey? Get Used to It_ signs.)

 

And then the teams were lining up and he was bumping gloves with the other team’s captain and the referee was readying them, puck in his hand. He felt Kawalsky and Carter on either side of him and he met the opponent’s eyes straight on and gave a shit-eating grin. 

 

This was where he belonged—how could he think any differently.

 

His grip on his stick tightened and he knocked it warningly against the opposing player as the referee skated between them, whistle ring at his lips and puck overing between them. 

 

“Kick ass, sir!” 

 

Carter’s voice—strong and clear fierce—rang out across the ice and he gripped the stick harder. _Kick ass, sir._ He could do that. He would take the game by force, if he had to. But he and the Stargates were going to give everything they had and show the world what they were made of.

 

And then, the puck dropped.

 

____________________________

 

“And the story that _everyone_ in the sports world is talking about, Nancy, are the Colorado Spring Stargates. You may be asking yourself, ‘Who?’ Well, you wouldn’t be alone! After being given just a year to turn things around, Coach George Hammond has put together a dynamite of a team. In their first night out, the Stargates decimated the Abydos Suns 6-1. That score on its own is impressive, but with 2 hat tricks each for Captain Jack O’Neill and newcomer Samantha Carter—that’s right _Samantha…”_

 

Jack snorted into his beer from his position on the couch, cursing and wiping at his NHL practice tee and dabbing at the spilled beer. He groaned with the effort and looked mutinously at his knees, both sporting a hefty ice pack taped to his legs with sports tape. 

 

The press coverage had been—as he anticipated—rather hefty. And within a few hours of the game, every sports channel—both local and national—had picked up the Stargates’ stunning showcase. And now, from the comfort of his couch and a beer in hand, he watched as the talking heads on ESPN went into play-by-play detail of each of his and Sam’s goals.

 

For game one of a new season with a new mix of players, the Stargates had absolutely shined. The defense showed up with some truly amazing plays and a few well-timed body checks and hits. Teal’c had been a monster as goalie—only letting a single shot through (for which he apologized deeply). And then their offense. While Kawalsky drew the opponent’s attention, he and Carter had slipped and skated between the defense, finding each other easily. 

 

At times, it felt like they were untouchable and goals were a given—like there wasn’t even a goalie there. He hadn’t felt so alive, so connected, in a long time. And it had been so long since he felt like hockey was _easy_ like that. 

 

The sound of his phone buzzing harshly against the side table startled him and he grabbed for it, checking the notification. It was a text message from Carter.

 

_Great game, Captain. Felt good out there, tonight. See you at practice Monday?_

 

He grinned and typed out his response. 

 

_Absolutely. And good game tonight, Carter. Seriously._

 

_It must have been your inspirational locker room speech._

 

He snorted and, without realizing how much he was smiling already, responded with a teasing warning about sassing the team captain. In response, he received an animated face with a tongue sticking out—an emoji, he remembered they were called—that made him laugh, making him think of Carter skating backwards and sticking her tongue at him. 

 

He caught sight of the time at the top of his phone and sighed, knowing he should haul himself up to bed. But later, lying in bed, the bedroom dark and his knees aching, he found himself opening his messages and wanting to continue the conversation with Carter, wanting to keep talking to her so she could put that smile on his face again.

 

And if he fell asleep with the image of Carter looking up at him after her hat trick, face flushed with exertion and short blonde hair slicked back from her head with sweat, and her eyes alight with triumph and victory, well, that was between him and his subconscious. 


	5. Asshat

The Stargates win and they win often. The victories are often inelegant and sloppy--last minute plays pulled out of their asses and usually organized by O’Neill and executed by Carter. Either way, they keep adding ticks to the win column and their standings within the division and league are rising and holding steady. 

The Carter and O’Neill jerseys are selling out faster than the team store can keep them in stock and every other news segment on ESPN and FOXSports is filled with analysts waxing poetic about the seemingly telepathic link that, not just the Stargates have, but Carter and O’Neill, specifically. 

The team tease them about it endlessly and it’s good-natured ribbing, but it doesn’t stop Carter from blushing and ducking her head and telling Kawalsky to stuff it. Kawalsky just grins and turns to Jack. “Cap, did you tell her to say that with your  _telepathic link?”_

This time, they are in unison: “Can it, Kawalsky.”

So it’s really no surprise when their agents approach them to do a joint photoshoot and interview with a national hockey magazine. It’s not just good for them, but it’s important for the organization. The more spotlight on them--on their successes--the better. A little extra nudge from Hammond to Jack in private, a few well-placed words about ticket sales and publicity and the franchise’s future, tip them both into agreement (even if it means they endure wolf whistles and howls from their teammates). 

* * *

 

The photoshoot itself is surprisingly easy. The photographer is friendly, the studio is cool despite the heat of the lights, and the make-up and stylists have kept it simple: his own jersey and there’s only a thin layer of foundation on his face. But Carter? Carter looks like a bombshell. She’s wearing her normal jersey but they did  _something_  to her hair to make it looks soft and slightly curled and her eyes are lined darkly and her lips are a shocking red. 

It makes him pause mid-stride and she frowns at him, suddenly self-conscious and tucking her hair nervously behind her ear. He licks his lips and wonders why the hell he hasn’t seen this side of her before. Jack knew she was attractive, of course he did--she was blonde and leggy and tough as hell and one of the best hockey players he knew. She was a dream. 

But this? This  _feminine_ side of her made him want to wrap her up in his own jersey and take her home and maybe kiss her thoroughly enough to get that lipstick off and--

And that’s a problem. 

Before he can think too hard on this revelation or answer Carter’s questioning looks, the photographer and his assistants come out and the photoshoot is underway.

For the most part, the photographer doesn’t direct them, just gives them a pair of hockey sticks and a puck and tells them to just interact and he’ll do the rest. 

Jack raises an eyebrow at her and flips the puck up onto the paddle of his stick and bounces it around, flipping it up and catching it. She rolls her eyes and leans against the prop goal and watches him show off for a moment before using her own stick to knock his aside and take control of the puck, putting her own spin on puck tricks. 

Jack takes her place by the goal and taunts her, spreading his body wide in front of the net. “C’mon, Carter. Let’s see that wristshot.”

She grins at him, rising to the challenge, still bouncing the puck on her stick. “You been training with Teal’c?”

He straightened into an approximation of their teammates persona and deepened his voice, eyebrow perfectly cocked and head inclined. “Indeed.”

She laughed, head thrown back, and it was so unlike her--so unlike her normal ducked and hidden smile that he found himself smiling back at her just as brightly. She dropped the puck on the ground and batted it around, shrugging and looking up at him impishly. “You asked for it, Cap.”

The photographer fell into the background, forgotten, as the two teammates played around on set, laughing and teasing and trying to get a puck into a miniature goal. 

* * *

 

Once the photographer was pleased with the number of pictures and moments captured, he thanked them and assured them both that they would receive a few prints along with a copy of the finished magazine.

Then they were ushered along into a small interview room, Jack and Sam bickering the entire way about who managed to get more shots into the miniature goal (”Carter, you’re dreaming if you think you got more than I did.” “Well, Captain, you  _are_  older and who knows what your mental capacity is--” “Hey! Watch it.”)

The interview, in short, was a disaster. A far cry from the ease of the photoshoot, the interview was strained and abrasive. The interviewer--Kinsey something or other--was ill-prepared and, for lack of any other word, an asshat. 

While Jack received general questions about life as a professional hockey player--practice schedules, strategy on the ice, and the thrill of constantly scraping wins by the skin of their teeth (a comment, Jack and Sam both noticed, was dripping in condescension), Sam received questions of a more personal nature.

Kinsey leered at her as he pried into her personal life, wanting to know more about her broken engagement with her old assistant coach, Jonas Hanson (something Jack hadn’t known about her and filed away for addressing later), and about her exercise regime, and how it feels to constantly dress in thick padding and gear when there’s a killer body under the jersey.

She handles it like a pro, gritting her teeth and smiling coldly and redirecting the questions back to hockey and the game and relevant questions. It makes him wonder how often this happens to her. It’s another thing she deals with that he’ll never have to endure and it makes him admire her all the more.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop Jack from wanting to storm out of the interview, tell Kinsey where to stuff it, and treat Carter to an open bar tab, his treat. It’s on the tip of his tongue, anger building in the center of his chest when Kinsey shifts his attention back to jack. 

“And, Jack, I understand you're still recovering after the death of your son." 

The anger building within him on Carter’s behalf leeches out of him and he freezes; he can feel Sam go still next to him, too, as the reporter shuffles through his notes. 

"Charles, right?"

Before Jack can feel intrusion at the question, before he can feel numb and cold and then angry, before he can feel anything, Sam is up and out of her seat and in Kinsey’s face before he can blink.

"It’s  _Charlie_ , you ass. And this interview is over." 

He watches with a dry mouth, still feeling numb, as Sam snatches the electronic recording device out of Kinsey’s hands. The reporter splutters, raising out of his chair and making a grab for Sam. 

“Hey! You can’t do that!”

Sam spins, finger in his face and voice deadly cold. “Watch me.”

She turns back to him, eyes blazing, and tugs on his sleeve, dragging him up and out of his chair.

"C'mon, Captain. We don't need this shit."

He lets Sam lead him out of the cool studio, like his own personal shield and savior, and into the bright heat of the sunshine outside. The ghost of his son floats at the front of his mind--his laughter, his brown eyes and floppy hair, his--

He feels like he’s drowning right alongside his son and he can’t breathe and his heart thuds a painful  _Charlie Charlie Charlie._ His chest is tight and his heart is racing and then--

“Jack?”

A warm hand slips into his, fingers stroking cautiously and then more firmly over his knuckles. The warmth of her touch loosens the ice cold feeling in his chest and he feels himself calming, feels himself swimming to the surface and following her voice out of the darkness of grief.

“Sam?”

She tightens her hold on his hand, almost like she refuses to let him go in case he needs her to fight his battle for him again. He almost smiles at the way her eyes dart to the studio door as if preparing to fight anyone--especially, Kinsey--who may come chasing after them. 

He rolls his shoulders and closes his eyes, squeezing her hand but not pulling away. “Thank you,” he says, turning brown eyes onto her, grateful and soft. “I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t expect--”

“You don’t need to prepare or expect  _that._  I’ll talk to Hammond and he’ll get that  _ass’s_  press pass revoked. He’ll never see another Stargates game if we have anything to say about it.”

He lets her voice wash over him and he finally feels his son’s ghost recede enough for him to breathe and function again. Reluctantly, he pulls his hand from hers--time to reinstate boundaries.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together and flashing her a smile, avoiding her blue eyes--the ones searching for any sign that he wasn’t okay, that he still needed to lean on her, hold her hand. “Let’s just forget  _that_  just happened and can we please just get a drink?”

The easy acquiescence from his right hand, the way she grinned at him and promised that the first drink was on her, and the way they walked across the parking lot to his big green truck--a unified front with their swinging hands brushing softly against the other.

One day, he’d tell her how much strength he drew from her in that moment. But for now, he was content to ride alongside her, windows down, and hurtling towards the nearest dive bar, her soft hums and perfume filling his senses and chasing away any lingering ghosts.  


	6. Boundaries

After the interview, after an afternoon spent slightly drunk and playing pool and decidedly _not_ brushing up against her as he lined up a shot at the pool table, after getting his ass handed to him by the pool shark that is Samantha Carter, things shift between them. 

 

In the gaps between games where drinks are refilled and the balls are racked and the cues get chalked, he tells her about his son. It’s the first time he’s said his name out loud since he died and it sticks in his throat until Sam’s hand on his wrist loosens the name. 

 

She listens and smiles and doesn’t push or pry; just takes what he offers, squeezes his arm, and pushes another beer at him. He doesn’t talk about _that_ day—neither one are ready for that. But he tells her that Charlie loves dousing his bacon in syrup and jumping into bed with him and Sara in the early mornings on game day. He tells her that Charlie was his biggest fan and everything he’d done was for his son. The memory of Charlie swathed in an oversized O’Neill jersey, excited face pressed to the glass and cheering him on floats to the surface of his mind and for the first time in almost a year, he doesn’t push it down.

 

When he leaves the bar, stumbling and a little more than buzzed, leaning on her for support—in more ways than one—he takes a deep breath of the Colorado air and thinks it might be the first breath he’s felt since Charlie died.

 

It feels like breaking the surface after treading water and drowning. 

 

And then Sam is plucking the keys to the truck from his hand and grinning at him, helping him into the passenger side of his truck and shaking her head. “You’re lucky I’m not Kawalsky or the fact that you're a lightweight would get around.”

 

He just lolls his head to the side and grins lazily at her. “’S’why you’re my favorite, Carter.”

 

She laughs at him and leans across him to buckle his seatbelt and he catches a whiff of her perfume and fights the urge to lean forward and bury his nose in her hair. Luckily, the seatbelt clicks quickly and she’s straightening and shaking her head at him. “Now I’m really glad Kawalsky isn’t here. He’d be gutted, Captain.”

 

_Captain._ He frowns and watches as she closes the truck door and walks to the other side and sliding into the driver’s seat. She’s the only one who calls him that off the ice and he wants to pry, wants to ask why. Maybe it’s the day for it. 

 

“Why do you do that?” At her questioning look, he clarifies. “Call me ‘Captain’ off the ice.”

 

Her hands tighten on the wheel and her face goes carefully still before she plasters a smile on her face—but it’s not _her_ smile; it’s fake and they both know it. “Because you _are_ the Captain, Captain. Besides, I thought you liked it when your rookies respected you.”

 

He scoffed. “Carter, you may be new to the team, but you’re no rookie.”

 

She smiles—genuinely, this time—at that and he’s glad he said it. He really doesn’t praise her enough. But he wasn’t lying before; she is his favorite and the last thing either of them needs is for rumors to be started that he’s going easy on her. 

 

He reaches for her, his fingertip just brushing along her thigh, just enough to get her attention again. He misses the way her grip tightens on the steering wheel and she sucks in a breath. The Guinness is rolling pretty pleasantly through his veins and he’s feeling relaxed, the night of the city blurring outside the truck windows.

 

“Tell me why, Sam.”

 

For a moment, it’s like he can physically see her brain whir through the possible responses and outcomes. It looks a lot like her thinking face on the ice when she’s strategizing; he likes that he knows that about her. 

 

“I was in the winter Olympics last year,” she starts. He’s amazed that she says she was in the _Olympics_ just a year ago, like it was nothing. He knows men and women alike who would have been crowing it from the rooftops. Even in this, she is humble and confident in her abilities. 

 

She continues. “Jonas Hanson was my assistant coach. Things between us got physical—fast. It was all kind of a whirlwind, really. I—“ She bites her lip and he can see she’s holding back. He doesn’t push her, though, thinking back to the way she was simply there for him in the bar as she listened to him talk about Charlie.

 

“We got engaged and the Olympics ethics committee frowned upon it, but we weren’t technically breaking any rules. And then things changed between us. We fought off the ice and Jonas would punish me for it during practice or games. It was messy and we started to resent each other. I broke it off and didn’t look back.”

 

He wants to ask what she means by _punish,_ wants to know what she ever saw in the man, wants to know so much more about her. Instead, he presses on. “That doesn’t explain ‘Captain.’”

 

“When I broke it off with Jonas, I would only call him ‘Coach.’ It was my way of reaffirming our boundaries, our place in each other’s lives. Does that—does that make sense?” She sounds worried, like she’s shared too much, shown _him_ too much of herself. 

 

He frowns and tries to follow the leap from Coach to Captain. “So,” he begins slowly, brain muddled by alcohol. “You want to make sure I understand there are boundaries? Between us?”

 

“Something like that,” she agrees, eyes focused on the road ahead of her. He sits back and wishes he were more sober for this conversation—it feels like she’s saying something he’s not hearing.

 

He tries not to feel disappointed, but he can’t help it. He wants more days like today: hockey and alcohol and sharing themselves with the other. He wants to know what it was like growing up with Jacob Carter as her father, wants to know why she chose hockey when most people would run the other way; wants to know why she eats peanut butter and celery before every game; wants to know why she rides motorcycles and how she became such a pool shark.

 

He doesn’t _want_ boundaries. It’s a revelation he’s not entirely comfortable with and it feels very much like the one he had at the photoshoot earlier when he’d taken notice of just how beautiful his right hand was. _Dangerous waters._

 

She slows the truck and pulls into his driveway and he’s startled to see that they’ve arrived already. His house looks dark and empty and he lingers in the cab, finger itching to reach back over her thigh and tell her that it _feels_ different between them and does she feel it, too? The thought of staying here in the cab with her is more warm and welcoming than his home. 

 

“Can you get inside okay?” she asks, killing the engine and pressing his keys into his hand. 

 

“I think I can manage, Carter,” he says, fumbling with the door handle and stumbling out of the cab. He’s grateful that she at least tries to hide her laughter into her hand. Nonetheless, in a few strides, she’s out of the cab and sliding his arm over her shoulder and helping him to the front door.

 

The press of her body against his is more than nice and he leans into her, catching her perfume again and inhaling. They work together to get the door open and she gets him to the couch, flipping lights on as she goes. 

 

He flops down onto the couch—well-worn from many nights spent on it—and he grins when Sam reaches for the blanket on the back of the chair in the corner and drapes it over him. 

 

“You’re lucky we don’t have practice tomorrow,” she murmurs softly. He sighs at the warmth of the blanket and lets his eyes flutter close, content to be home and buzzed and surrounded by her voice and his things. It feels like another deep breath he can finally take. 

 

His eyes fly open, suddenly concerned. “Carter, how are you getting home?”

 

Her motorcycle was back at the studio and she’d driven him here. Maybe she planned this? Maybe she planned to stay—

 

“I called a cab outside. It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

 

He frowns. “I didn’t see you make a call.” Was he _that_ drunk?

 

She laughs and taps her phone in her back pocket. “It’s an app now, old man,” she teases, laughing when he shoots her a dirty look. 

 

“Old man who can still kick your ass on the ice,” he grumbles, pulling the blanket up around him and toeing off his shoes, settling in for the night. 

 

“We’ll see about that,” she says in a nonchalant, musical tone of voice that has him cracking open one eye. She’s illuminated by the pale yellow light of his table side lamp, her eyes bright and dancing with amusement, and so beautiful that it hurts to look at her. 

 

“Hanson was an idiot to let you go.”

 

He doesn’t know why he says it, but he means it. How anyone could have a woman like Samantha Carter in their lives and not fight tooth and nail for her—he’ll never understand. 

 

The smile slides from her face and she fixes him with a look that, for once, he can’t read on her. Her normally bright blue eyes are suddenly dark and thoughtful and serious and he fights the pull of the alcohol into a heavy sleep for as long as possible. He wants to learn this expression of hers, too. 

 

She leans forward and smooths her hand over his head, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Her hand drifts from his hairline down the side of his face, that strange expression ever-present. Something heavy settles between them and he’s contemplating pushing himself up onto his elbows and dragging her down on top of him—fuck boundaries and hockey franchises and photoshoots. He wants _her._

 

He thinks they might be on the same page—they always are—when a long, loud car horn sounds from outside, jarring them both out of the moment. 

 

She closes her eyes and whispers, “That’s my ride.”

 

He watches as she stands, taking her hand and her blue eyes and her easy smile with her. Without conscious thought, his hand shoots out to wrap around her wrist, stopping her exit. 

 

“Stay,” he asks, ashamed of the slight slur in his voice. He wishes he was more sober; wishes things were different.

 

She looks pained at the request and she opens her mouth to respond when the taxi cab outside honks again, louder and longer. They both glare at the window in his living room. 

 

Before he can smile at their unified response—as unified here as they are on the ice—Sam is ducking down towards him, hand in his hair, and pressing her lips to his forehead, lingering for a moment. 

 

He closes his eyes and savors the touch: soft lips, fingernails scratching against his scalp, and her warm breath against his face. 

 

“I’ll see you at practice, Captain.”

 

And then she’s gone, the sound of the door shutting and his title— _Captain—_ ringing in his ears. 

 

He collapses onto the couch and traces the imprint of her kiss with a reverent fingertip. 

 

For once, he thinks he might understand what she means about boundaries.

 

They’re in big trouble.

 


	7. Jacob Carter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note, this does mention Jacob's cancer (pretty much in as much detail as the show went) so if that makes ya feel icky, you can skip this chapter.

Over the next week, between practices and scrimmages and play review, things between he and Carter settle back down. They’re smart and they know why they _can’t_ address the thing growing between them—a hockey franchise on their shoulders, the press sniffing around for any hint of impropriety, and Carter leading the way for a future wave of female hockey players. 

 

But it doesn’t stop them from sitting together in the dark briefing room, faces illuminated by the giant screen as they review the plays of the previous game, and allow their feet to press together beneath the table. It doesn’t stop them from skating side by side and letting their shoulders brush and playfully knock their hockey sticks together.

 

It’s easy and warm and comfortable and perfectly, wonderfully safe and permissible. For now, it’s enough.

 

It’s this justification—that everything between them is perfectly platonic and _fine—_ that has him driving to her house on an off-night, a binder full of diagrams and plays that he wants her input on before taking it to Hammond. 

 

Except when the door to the Carter household is pulled open, it’s not his second in command waiting for him, but Jacob Carter. 

 

For a moment, he is a teenager again with Jacob Carter’s poster on his walls and dreaming of playing alongside him, the pair of them skating to victory and holding a gleaming Stanley Cup up between them. 

 

And then Carter—his Carter—is appearing behind her father and smiling at him. “Captain!”

 

Her voice is strained and he can see in the low light of the entryway that her smile is strained and her shoulders tense. He goes on full alert and looks between the two Carters questioningly. 

 

Jacob is standing in the doorway, blocking his view of the Carter household and looks him up and down before shaking his wrist out and checking his watch. “O’Neill,” he says, voice sharp. “A bit late for a team meeting, don’t you think?”

 

Behind him, Sam rolls her eyes and tugs at her father’s shoulders, pulling the door open. “Dad,” she says warningly. “Don’t start.” She turns her attention back to Jack and gestures for him to come inside, her movements a little too jerky to not be interpreted as pleading. “Come in, Captain.”

 

Introductions are made and Jack notices the elder Carter squeezes his hand a little too tightly and he reckons this is probably _not_ the time to tell the man he grew up with his poster on his wall. So, of course, he tells him anyway.

 

“I gotta say, Mr. Carter, I grew up with your poster on my wall. That ’77 final?” Jack lets out a low whistle and shakes his head appreciatively. “That was a perfect game of hockey.”

 

The elder Carter raises his eyebrows at Jack’s praise and then flicks his eyes to Sam, smirking. “Funny you mention that. Actually, Sam here had a poster of _you_ on her wall. Above your bed, wasn’t it, Sammy?”

 

Jack turns on his heel to find Sam glaring reproachfully at her father and her cheeks burning a bright red. It’s a rather unwelcome reminder of the age difference between them, but all Jack can think is that Sam grew up looking at him. Maybe it was destiny after all. 

 

He grins at Sam, tongue between his teeth and rocking on his heels. “Oh, _really?”_

 

She ignores his pleased teasing and stares at her father, absolutely mortified, before crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at her father. “Really, Dad?”

 

Her father shrugs in faux-apology and Sam scoffs before shaking her head at him and returning her attention to Jack, gesturing for him to follow her into the kitchen. “Beer?”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, following her and still smirking, imagining a young Sam staring up at his old NHL poster. “So, Carter,” he teases, unwilling to let this go. “Is _my_ poster on your wall the reason you joined the Stargates?”

 

She tosses the beer at him and scowls. “You know, they didn’t quite capture your big head on that poster.” 

 

He pops the cap and takes a long pull from his beer, still grinning at her. Eventually, her scowl softens into a smile and she rolls her eyes at him. “Shut up,” she murmurs before collapsing onto the chair beside him at the kitchen bar, pulling the binder of plays towards her and flicking through diagrams. 

 

Jacob follows into the kitchen and rummages in the fridge for his own beer, pointedly popping the cap off in Sam’s direction, before focusing on Jack.

 

“So, Jack. What does bring you to my daughter’s house at this hour?” 

 

Jack gestured to the book of plays that Sam was poring over. “Just wanted to get Carter’s opinion on some new strategies before I passed them on to Coach Hammond.”

 

The sound of Sam humming softly in thought next to him made him smile and he watched as she grabbed a pencil off the counter and began making adjustments and suggestions. He bumped her shoulder with his and grinned. “See, Jake? She’s a genius.”

 

But Jacob Carter was not smiling back.

 

Instead, his eyes were glued at the place where Sam and Jack’s shoulders were pressed together and looking sharply between them. Jack suddenly felt flush with warmth, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. 

 

“I think,” Jacob ground out from between gritted teeth. “I preferred ‘Mr. Carter,’ if you don’t mind.”

 

At the man’s words, Sam’s head shot up and she frowned. “Dad,” she said sharply. 

 

The tension that Jack had felt upon first entering the house returned and before he could say anything— _do_ anything—Jacob was slamming the beer down on the counter and throwing his hands up in exasperation, turning his ire onto his daughter. 

“Don’t _Dad_ me, Samantha. You give up on a repeat of the Olympics—your dream, may I add—and come traipsing out to Colorado Springs to play with the worst-seeded team in the division. You let _him_ —“ He gestured to Jack. “Steal your ideas and you play _second-fiddle_ when you could be the Captain of the United States’ Olympic team. I—“

 

Jack opened his mouth, prepared to defend his second, to explain how very, very wrong Jacob was, when Sam beat him to it. She pushed herself to her feet, eyes blazing. Beneath the kitchen bar, he moved his foot to the left and let it rest against hers, out of sight from the elder Carter and the only comfort he could offer her.

 

“ _Dad._ I don’t have to explain myself to you and I don’t need to sit here and listen to you belittle my successes. Just because they aren’t the successes _you_ wanted for me, doesn’t mean they aren’t still good. And Jack—the Captain—would never steal my ideas. We’re a _team.”_

 

Jack opened his mouth once more to agree, to reassure Jacob that he would never, ever take advantage of Sam. But it seemed as if he was to be sidelined for the Carter-Carter showdown. 

 

Jacob scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh please, Sam. And I suppose you two—“ He gestured at the narrow space between Sam and Jack’s bodies—“Are a team like you and _Jonas_ were a ‘team’?”

 

He heard Sam suck in a sharp breath, watched her face go white as the blood drained from her face. The pedestal he once placed this man on was cracking and falling apart and Jack couldn’t give less of a damn. He stood, placing hand on the small of Sam’s back in support, glaring resolutely at Jacob Carter.

 

Sam leaned back into his touch, imperceptibly, before closing her eyes and gritting out. “That was uncalled for and you know it.”

 

To his credit, Jacob looked contrite but Jack recognized the stubborn set of his jaw and the fixed nature of his eyes—it was the exact look Sam got before diving into an ice brawl. 

 

Voice shaking with anger, Sam continued. “I didn’t give up hockey, Dad. I did what was best for _me_ for once. And I think,” she sighed out, the fight going out of her. “I think it’s time for you to go. The Captain and I have work to do.”

 

Jacob took a step towards her, palms up in supplication. “Sammy, don’t—This isn’t how I want to leave things. We still need to talk, sweetheart. There are things I need to tell you…”

 

Sam crossed her arms, eyes glassy with tears and Jack knew she was still feeling stung from her father’s earlier accusation. “Then say it,” she commanded.

 

Jacob looked uneasily at Jack, frowning, before shaking his head. “In private,” he stressed.

 

Jack drew Sam’s attention. “Carter, I can go and come back later if you need—“

 

But Sam cut him off with a shake of her head, her foot nudging his. “Stay,” she said in a low voice. “Whatever my dad has to say, he can say, and then leave.”

 

Jacob cursed softly before running a hand over his balding head, searching for the words before blurting out, “I have cancer, Sam. Okay? That’s why I wanted to see you go back to the Olympics. Because I have cancer.”

 

Silence filled the kitchen once more and Jack swallowed hard at the news. Beside him, Sam swayed and her breathing became shallow and rapid. 

 

“W-what?”

 

Jacob picked up his forgotten beer and took a healthy drink, swallowing the tangy beer quickly. “Lymphoma,” he said simply, shrugging, not meeting his daughter’s eyes. 

 

“That’s—that’s bad, right?”

 

“Well,” Jacob said lightly. “It’s certainly not good. But, it’s not the worst either. I’ll be around for a while.”

 

Jack felt some of the respect for the man return. He recognized a father trying to be strong for his kid. How many times had he, Jack, laid in a hospital bed with his knees shot to hell and Charlie tearfully asking if he would be okay?

 

Sam let out a little sob and stepped around the counter and walked towards her father, sliding her arms around him and tucking herself against him. “Dad,” she whispered. 

 

Jack watched as Jacob closed his eyes and hugged his daughter back tightly, taking in a deep breath. He suddenly felt intrusive and he averted his gaze, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle. Family moments like this—matters of life and death and loss—were meant to be private; something he was all too familiar with.

 

The Carters disentangled themselves and Jacob ruffled Sam’s hair. “I was hoping to stick around long enough to see my daughter compete in her _fourth_ Olympic cycle.”

 

Jack watched as Sam tensed and pulled away. Jacob reached for her. “Sweetheart, I don’t care what it is you think you’re doing here on this Stargates team, but nothing— _nothing—_ can amount to the Olympics. Not for you. You’re too good, Sammy. You deserve so much more than a third-rate NHL team.”

 

Sam stared up at her father tearfully, shaking her head. “You don’t understand,” she murmured softly. “It’s _my_ dream, Dad. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

 

“Fathers have dreams, too.”

 

She stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself and Jack felt a physical pull to go to her, to tug her into his arms and shield her from the man before her, shield her from disappointed fathers and the unfairness of cancer. 

 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered into the stillness of the kitchen. “But I _can’t._ I’ve made my choice.”

 

Jack watched as Jacob’s face fell and a shadow of disappointment crossed his expression. He brushed past his daughter and tossed his now-empty beer bottle into the garbage. Sam stood rooted to the spot, watching helplessly as her father brushed her aside and let the distance between them grow. 

 

“Well,” Jacob said irreverently. “This cancer thing is gonna go on for months, so, you don’t have to check up on me any time soon. I’ll be around if you need me.”

 

Sam swallowed back tears, her voice shaking. “Dad, please don’t go like this. Please—“

 

“Congratulations on the Stargates, I guess. I’m sure you deserve it.”

 

“Dad…”

 

And with that, Jacob Carter left his crying daughter alone in her kitchen, the front door clicking shut with a resounding _thud._

 

Jack felt his hands curl into fists at his side, the itch to chase after the man and give him a piece of his mind—explain that Samantha Carter was one of the greatest hockey players he’d ever seen, that she was smart and savvy and wonderful, that she could turn _any_ NHL team around single-handedly, that he was a fool for turning his back on his daughter when there was precious little time left.

 

And then he heard Sam’s soft cries and he felt his fists unclench and the fierce desire to protect her, comfort her, welled back up within him—propriety be damned. 

 

She looked so small and alone in the kitchen, the weight of her father’s news and disappointment pushing down on her shoulders. 

 

In a few steps, Jack was standing before her, tugging her gently into his arms with a soft, “C’mere.” 

 

She went willingly, molding herself to his body and tucking her head beneath his chin, burying her face into his chest and breathing him in, arms wrapping around his waist and leaning on him heavily. 

 

He stroked her hair softly, murmuring nonsense words of comfort, taking her weight against his chest and holding her up. “It’s okay, Sam,” he muttered into her hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

 

She cried into his shirt, curling her hands into the fabric of his shirt and taking deep shuddering breaths before pulling away, wiping at her face. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t—“

 

“Hey, hey, if there was ever a time to slobber all over your team captain, this is it.”

 

She let out a little sob of laughter at this and ducked her head, wiping at the last of her tears. Jack rocked on his heels, fighting the urge to reach back out and touch her—to slide his hand through her hair or brush his fingers along her cheek and jaw. 

“Sam, I can go if you want space to—“

 

“No!” She blushed at her vehement outburst before softening and reaching across the counter and grabbing the binder he brought. “No,” she said more softly. “Stay. Let’s just work on this? Please?”

 

He looked at her closely for a moment—a thousand questions on his mind. She looked emotionally wrung out and pale, like she’d gone ten rounds. Was this normal for her and her father—cancer not withstanding? Was their relationship fraught with emotional landmines constantly being detonated?

 

Sighing softly, he tugged the binder loose from her hands and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Ignoring Sam’s protests, he grabbed the two half-empty beers in one hand before pushing lightly at her shoulder, moving her towards the back door. 

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he said lightly. “New team rule: Devastating family news means you’re off the hockey hook.”

 

He pulled open the back door and led her onto her back deck, settling her down on the steps and passing her the bottle of beer. Taking a seat next to her, pressed together from shoulder to thigh, he looked up at the night sky. 

 

Colorado this time of year was briskly cool and the air felt crisp and clean, fall around the corner and winter well on its way. The sky was clear and the stars shone brightly. He remembered laying in his own backyard once upon a time, Charlie tucked against his side, as they tried to make hockey sticks and lions and other shapes from the stars. 

 

Beside him, Sam sighed softly and leaned a little further into his side, breathing quietly. 

 

“Hey, Sam?”

 

She hummed in acknowledgement, taking a sip from her beer. 

 

“I know I can’t promise everything is going to be okay with your dad. But, uh, for what it’s worth, I’m really, _really_ glad you signed on with us.” He paused and then added, wryly, “Even if we are a third-rate, low-seeded team.”

 

Sam laughed and dropped her head to his shoulder and he grinned, resting his cheek against the top of her head. He recognized they were beginning to drift away from the safe, permissible touches they had allowed themselves, veering into dangerous waters again. 

 

Her hand slipped into his, their joined hands resting on his knee. His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, offering what comfort he could. 

 

“For what it’s worth,” she echoed, voice soft. “I’m really glad I signed on, too.”


	8. shootout

It’s not often that their games go to penalty shootouts. For the most part, Carter and O’Neill’s last minute plans—with a little guidance from Hammond—end the game with another tick in the _W_ column. 

 

But in the game following Jacob Carter’s announcement, Jack can do nothing but watch as Sam slowly loses focus, her eyes drifting to the stands where her father watches with a stern set of his jaw and his arms crossed over his chest. 

 

Hammond pulls him aside in the middle of the game after Sam misses an easy shot and asks him point blank if Carter needs to be benched. Jack feels the weight of the ‘C’ on his jersey. The General is trusting him to make the best decision for the team. Jack looks at his teammate—his friend—and sees the way she grips her hockey stick, the way she digs her blade into the ice, and looks towards the goal. 

 

Carter’s going to give him—the team—everything she’s got and he won’t bench her for an off day. 

 

“She’s fine, General. Just—just give her a chance to shake it off.”

 

Hammond looks at him sternly but doesn’t counter his captain’s judgment. 

 

But she doesn’t shake it off and the Asgardians chip away at their lead and by the end of the final period, the game is tied. The overtime period ends with no change in score and so they are headed for a penalty shootout. 

 

Jack nods at Hammond and pulls Carter and Kawalsky close, head bent low and helmets knocking together, his gloved hand heavy and warm on their shoulders, voice and eyes fierce. “We can _do this,”_ he insists, nodding solemnly at Kawalsky and then at Carter. But Carter’s eyes are over his shoulder, eyeing Jacob Carter anxiously. 

 

He pushes at Kawalsky when the referee blows his whistle. “Go knock it out, buddy.”

 

Jack doesn’t need to watch his teammate take the penalty shot—he knows the outcome. He needs Carter— _his_ Carter—back with him. He bops her on her head, drawing her attention, glove knocking her chin. 

 

“Enough,” he commands. “Get your dad out of your head and focus, Carter. We need you.”

 

She looks up at him, eyes shining. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admits, ducking her head. Cameras are everywhere and the last thing she needs is footage of her tearing up on the ice before a big shootout. 

 

The arena explodes in applause and screams as Kawalsky’s shot rings true and the puck rattles in the back of the net, sirens going off in celebration. The Stargates sitting on the bench bang their sticks in celebration as Kawalsky skates jubilantly back to the bench, stick raised in the air in triumph.

 

_1-0, Stargates._

 

The Asgardian shooter takes his place in the center of the ice and Jack turns his attention back to Carter, voice low, tugging her close, her skates sliding easily over the ice against his side. 

 

“Hammond wanted me to bench you today,” he says. She looks up sharply at this, distressed, but he shakes his head at her, willing her to listen. “But I didn’t doubt you for a second, Carter. And that’s why you’re standing here with me.”

 

The crowd’s groans tell them both that the Asgardian shooter has found its mark and Jack watches as Teal’c bows his head in front of the goal, vowing not to make the same mistake twice. 

 

_1-1. Tied up._

 

Jack leans his forehead against Carter’s, letting the roars of the arena fall away. “I’m going to go score,” he says with a cocky grin. Their faces are close and he can smell the sweat beading along her hairline and jaw and the peppermint gum she’s been chewing on all game.

 

“And when I’m done, you’re going to clean up behind me and bring in the _win._ And listen up Carter, because I don’t give a lot of pep talks.”

 

“But you’re so good at it,” she deadpans, eyes sparkling with her teasing. He grins at her and thinks it’s probably not a good idea to flirt so openly in the middle of the rink. 

 

“That’s right, Carter. I am _good_ at it. Just like you’re good at, y’know, hockey.”

 

She snorts and knocks her stick against his before sobering. “Not so good today,” she admits, eyes meeting his from beneath lowered lashes.

 

He kicks at her skates with the toe of his own skates in admonishment. “Day’s not over yet,” he reminds her. “So I say we wrap this game up with a _W_ and then head for the nearest bar. Deal?”

 

He watches as she closes her eyes and takes in a deep, shaky breath. When her eyes open, gone is the uncertainty and worry; all he can see is the confident, kick-ass woman he knows. She grins at him and headbutts him, helmets banging together. 

 

“Roger that, Cap.”

 

He slaps his stick against hers and pushes off on the backend of his blade, heading for center ice. The puck glides along the ice easily, obeying every twist and turn of his wrist, following his stick’s guidance. He chances a glance over his shoulder and sees Carter staring at him, focused and grinning. 

 

Behind her, Jacob Carter sits ramrod straight in his seat and glares at him. Jack thinks it’s not personal and has something to do with the easy, comfortable familiarity he has with his daughter. 

 

The thought that he and Carter could in any way be perceived as something _more_ than teammate and captain makes him feel hot and flush and he uses that feeling to push himself forward and skate down the middle of the ice at an incredibly fast sprint—an unusual tactic for a shootout. The Asgardian goalie looks taken aback and before the big man can reset his feet and adjust his stance, Jack is closing in and pulling back for a sharp and powerful snapshot into the top right corner. 

 

The arena roars to life once more and Jack grins broadly and shrugs at the goalie in a _What can you do?_ manner before taking his place in front of the Stargates bench, laughing when his teammates slap his shoulder and head in congratulations. 

 

_2-1, Stargates._

 

Jack doesn’t watch the second Asgardian player’s shot attempt. He doesn’t want—or need—to. Instead, he focuses on Sam. He watches as she closes her eyes, adjusts her hold on her stick. They’d sat shoulder-to-shoulder only a few hours prior, talking quietly and rewrapping and adjusting the grip tape—a pre-game ritual to which they had both become accustomed.

 

Out there, alone on the ice, the arena lights bouncing off the ice and illuminating her features, standing proud and sure and confident, the Stargates logo displayed proudly on her chest and arms, Jack O’Neill fell a little bit in love with Samantha Carter.

 

Once more, the crowd exploded into cheers as Teal’c lifted his glove triumphantly and raised it to the side, dumping out the rubber puck he had caught mid-air. As the referee collected the puck and moved to drop it back into the center of the ice, Teal’c bowed to all four sides of the arena.

 

The score remained _2-1, Stargates._

 

Sam took a deep breath and began her journey to the center of the ice. This was her chance to make up for her mistakes earlier in the game—this was her chance to prove to her father what she was capable of on this team.

 

He felt a rush of affection well up in him, fierce and hot. He had to hold his position in front of the Stargates’ bench until she took her shot. Jack held his breath and watched as she tilted her head at the Asgardian goalie, evaluating her options, knocking the puck slowly and lazily in front of her. 

 

She advanced mid-way down the ice before she exploded in a flurry of action, passing the puck from side-to-side, increasing her speed quickly. The Asgardian goalie backed up into the net and fell back onto the heels of his skates, digging in and readying for her shot. 

 

A few feet from the goal Sam raised her stick for a shot and the Asgardian goalie made a move to the left, anticipating her next move. And then to everyone’s surprise, Sam came to a completeand sudden stop, ice spraying up into the air as she quickly spun and adjusted her shot towards the complete opposite side of the goal.

 

The side that was left completely open by the Asgardian goalie.

 

The style and outlandish nature of the move was unnecessary and Jack knew she could have drilled the puck into the goal with a shovel shot or another, more standard method. This, he knew, was for _her._

This was proof that she was exactly where she belonged: here, in Colorado Springs, on the Stargates, with _him._

 

The arena went _wild_ , fans screaming and cheering as if she had just won them the Stanley Cup. She stood on the ice, chin jutted out proudly and eyes sparkling, absorbing every chant of _Carter, Carter, Carter!_

 

And then the Stargates bench was emptying, all hurtling towards her, exuberant and thrilled that their win streak wouldn’t end; that Carter and O’Neill had pulled them out another win. 

 

The pack of green, black, and white Stargates jerseys was led by Jack O’Neill, skating harder and faster than he had in a long time, towards her. She stood there and laughed and braced herself as her teammates and captain skated towards her and she let out an _oomph_ as Jack collided with her, pushing her to the cold, unforgiving ground of the rink. 

 

His body molded to hers as best as it could through the layers of padding and protective gear and Sam laughed as he buried his face into her neck, wiping his sweaty face against hers. “You did it!”

 

“Jack,” she laughed, pushing at his shoulders. He propped himself up and looked down at her, knowing he had only seconds before the rest of his team piled on top of them both like a pack of unruly dogs. 

 

His gloved hand knocked against her cheek softly and he watched as her eyes went wide with surprise at the gesture. 

 

“I knew you could do it, Sam,” he said softly, voice low and just for her. Around them, cameras were clicking wildly and he had a feeling that this would be the picture gracing the front of most sports news websites. 

 

Just then, the rest of the Stargates came to a sudden halt beside them before Cam hollered, “Dog pile!”

 

The weight of several hot and sweaty professional hockey players collapsed on top of them both, pressing Jack further against her body and forcing his head into the crook of her neck with a soft grunt. 

 

“Thank you,” she said warmly, her ears brushing along the curve of his ear, her hand at his hip. “For believing in me,” she clarified. He thought he felt her tighten her hand at his hip, squeezing slightly, before she tried to wriggle free from beneath the pile of overexcited Stargates players. 

 

“Always, Carter,” he murmured into her ear, lips just ghosting over her skin. He felt her slip from beneath his body and scoot back on the ice, laughing when Teal’c presented her with the game puck. 

 

From beneath the weight of his team, Jack watched as Sam skated laps around the arena, fist bumping the children who hung over the box and chanted her name. With pride, he saw her stop in front of her father’s seat and toss the game winning puck— _her_ puck—over the glass and into Jacob Carter’s lap with a grin and a quirk of her eyebrow. 

Not waiting to see what her father would do, Jack saw her skate back towards them before kneeling in front of him and knocking his helmet off-kilter, beaming at him—a fully-fledged, mega-watt Carter smile.

 

“I think you said something about a bar, Captain?”

 

She stood confidently on her skates and headed for the press corp, all clamoring and waiting for her.

 

“You owe me a drink!” she tossed over her shoulder.

 

He watched her go, a smile fixed permanently upon his face. Kawalsky elbowed him in the ribs and Daniel Jackson kicked him in the calf as his teammates disentangled and stood, looking down at their captain expectantly. 

 

He rolled over and looked up at them, reaching a hand up to wordlessly ask for their help up. He grunted as Teal’c and Jonas pulled him upright and he looped an arm around their shoulders, skating towards the locker room.

 

“Well boys,” he smirked, raising his voice. “You heard the lady! O’Malley’s to celebrate!”

 

As the Stargates piled into the locker room, Jack turned to look back at his second, his right hand man—er, woman. Sam was surrounded by press, answering questions with an easy smile, handling the badgering reporters like a pro. The reporters looked absolutely smitten with her, particularly when she stopped to lean down and sign a _Carter_ jersey for a shy little girl. 

 

For once, Jack O’Neill empathized with reporters. He knew exactly what it was like to be wrapped around Samantha Carter’s finger.

 

 

 


	9. not like this

O’Malley’s is a classic hockey dive bar with peeling and yellowing posters on the wall, a line of TVs tuned to ESPN and FOX Sports and NHL Classics, and a never-ending supply of thick, foamy beer and cheap whiskey. 

 

When the Stargates pile into the bar, accompanied by the support staff and Hammond, they are met with rounds of applause and hoots and hollers from locals who are still celebrating the shootout win. 

 

The owner of the bar pulls out an air horn and instructs everyone to calm down and leave the team alone (the men approaching Carter with stars in their eyes pause and scowl before slinking back to their seats). 

 

Jack grins and orders a round for his team, watching as they disperse throughout the bar, taking up booths and tables. Carter, Teal’c, Daniel, and Jonas take up residence at the pool table and he mentally wishes the boys luck. He’s been on the other side of pool shark Carter and he doesn’t envy his teammates. 

 

Jack slides onto the stool in front of the bar and takes a healthy gulp of the Guinness that’s passed his way. To his surprise, Coach Hammond takes the seat on his left and orders an Old Fashioned. 

 

“I always knew you were an old fashioned kind of guy, sir.” 

 

The sound of Jonas’s indignant, “ _Hey! You’re_ hustling _us!”_ and Daniel and Teal’s laughter catch his attention and he twists in his seat to see Carter leaning on her cue stick, the picture of innocence, with her hip cocked and leaning on the pool table. 

 

She says something to Jonas with a bright smile and a shrug of her shoulders before pushing the rack into the center of the rookie’s chest. Jack can feel his own grin stretching across his face at the sight of her and, as if she could feel his eyes on her, Carter looks up at him from across the bar. 

 

Just like before, everything around them seems to fall away—the sound of glasses clinking and the music playing from the jukebox in the corner and the chatter of patrons, all gone. All that’s left is the warmth unfurling in his chest when she looks at him, flashing him a lingering smile before biting her lip and turning away, returning to her game. 

 

Beside him, Hammond clears his throat and brings Jack’s attention back to him. Feeling suddenly exposed, clumsily trying to push his heart back into his chest and off his sleeve, Jack gulps greedily at his Guinness. 

 

“Jack,” Hammond starts slowly, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Carter’s a damn fine hockey player and a much-needed asset to this team.”

 

“I know that.”

 

Hammond nods and sips at his drink before continuing. “She’s got a bright future ahead of her—not just on the Stargates, but in professional hockey, period. It would be a—“ Again, Hammond hesitates, shooting his captain a furtive look before gathering his resolve. “It would be a damn shame if something or someone got in the way of that.”

 

Jack stiffens at the implication—that he would in _any_ way intentionally hurt Sam’s future. He can see the shining possibilities for her just as well as Hammond can. It’s perhaps one of the biggest reasons he hasn’t done a damn thing about the heat between them. 

 

“I know that, too, coach. I would never—“

 

“Son, don’t make me spell out for you what every damn news outlet and reporter can see. Hell, what _I_ can see.”

 

Jack frowns into his beer. Shame and embarrassment prickle along his skin and he feels like he’s exposed and floundering. The affection—the attraction—growing for Sam was apparently on display for everyone to see and not as carefully hidden as he had hoped.

 

Hammond sighs, feeling just as awkward as Jack. Laughter rings out across the bar— _Carter’s_ laughter—and Jack physically has to fight the urge to twist towards her again. Draining the last of his drink, Hammond stands and tugs his coat on, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. 

 

“Are we going to have a problem here, O’Neill?”

 

Panic curls in the pit of his stomach at the thought that anything between he and Carter would _be_ a problem. He takes another deep pull of his Guinness, lets the thick drink settle in his stomach, and flashes his coach a quick, flat smile.

 

“No,” Jack says, heart heavy. “No, of course not, sir.”

 

Hammond nods at him, clapping him on the back. “Good, good.” Another heavy sigh and Jack isn’t sure he’s ever heard the man so burdened. And then his coach is waving goodbye to his team and calling out to them all that they _still_ have a team meeting tomorrow morning and to not stay up too late.

 

The Stargates, in unison, groan out a “Yes, dad,” and burst into laughter at Hammond’s groan. 

 

Jack hates—and loves—that, above all else, he can hear Carter’s laughter the loudest and clearest. 

 

______________________

 

 

The Stargates, however, ignore their coach’s advice. Foregoing an early night, round upon round of drinks are passed around, celebrating their win as hard as if it had been the Stanley Cup finals. Jack loses count of the number of drinks he’s orders, or handed out, and had shoved into his hands. 

 

Night has passed into the early hours of the morning and Teal’c, who has abstained from any additional alcohol since that first round, is quietly herding up his drunken teammates and clearing out the bar, loading them into his large van and driving them home.

Jack grins at the big man’s mother hen nature and takes another drink, tossing back the shot—something clear that burns going down. Daniel and Jonas are giggling together in the corner, pressing buttons on the old, rickety jukebox and queueing up electronic-sounding 80s tracks that seem incongruous with the dive bar. 

 

Jack waves the barman down and asks him to begin calling cabs for the remaining teammates. The bar is closing soon and no one is in a state to drive home. Doing a quick headcount to account for the number of cabs needed, he frowns, noticing that Carter is missing. 

 

She wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to him, not after the game they just had. And she’s smart enough not to climb into her car—not when he’s seen her down a half dozen drinks, easy.

 

“Hey, Kawalsky!” he calls out with a grin, laughing as his friend uses the pool cue as a walking stick to get himself safely to the bathroom. “Where’s Carter?”

 

Kawalsky’s face goes simultaneously ashen and green and Jack knows the man’s about to be sick. “Outside,” Kawalsky manages to gasp. “Fresh air or some shit. I gotta—“

 

He doesn’t finish his sentence and instead stumbles to the bathroom, hand on his mouth. Jack winces and doesn’t envy the way his friend will feel in the morning.

 

When Jack finally makes it out the door, he takes a moment to take in a deep breath of the cool night air. Bars, he’d forgotten, have a way of making you forget what clean air smells like. The crispness clears the fuzziest edges of his mind and sharpens his focus. 

 

“Captain! Is the party over already?”

 

He’s grinning before he sees her, the sound of her voice—teasing and light—is like a beacon and he stumbles towards her. She’s tucked against the corner of the bar, just inside the alleyway, and leaning against the rough brick wall, looking up at the night sky. 

 

“Just about done, I think,” he informs her, settling beside her, their shoulders pressing together. She sighs and drops her head to his shoulder, pressing even closer. Against the wall, her pinky finger strokes along the edge of his palm.

 

There’s just enough alcohol running in his veins that he thinks capturing her hand and linking their fingers together is a good idea. From the way she sighs and squeezes back, she must agree.

 

“You did good tonight, Carter,” he praises softly, thumb rubbing softly over the inside of her wrist. She hums and presses closer and he closes his eyes, simultaneously memorizing the feel of her against his body and remembering Hammond’s warning from earlier in the night.

 

He’s let this—whatever this is between them—blossom into something it shouldn’t be; _can’t_ be.

 

It’s better to do it this way, he decides, to use the courage and burn of alcohol to tell her that they have to stop meeting at her house and going over plays at night over a glass of wine or bottle of beer; that they have to stop racing each other on the ice until they’re panting and smiling and leaning against each other; that they have to _stop_ looking at each other like the only thing they want to do is drop everything and start going at it like teenagers.

 

He’s going to do it, rip it off like a Bandaid, when she changes the rules of the game. 

 

She turns against him and slots a long, lean leg between his own, presses her hips to his, and tilts her head up, lips so, _so_ close to his.

 

“Sam,” he whispers, squeezing their entwined hands. It’s a warning and a plea.

 

And then she’s closing the gap between them, tilting her head up and sliding her lips over his. It’s all pressure and desperation at first, as if she’s terrified he’ll push her away. Despite the warning bells in his head, despite Hammond’s warning, there is no way in hell he could ever, _ever_ push her away right now.

 

Disentangling their hands, he lifts his now-free hand to her hip, squeezing softly, encouraging her to gentle the kiss. He licks out against the seam of her lips and she whimpers, pushing closer and opening her mouth to his.

 

Her hand slides up his neck, cupping his jaw and keeping him close. The feel of her hand—warm and soft and dry—on his cheek, stroking over the day’s growth of stubble softens something inside him and he pulls her closer, tilting his head and kissing her more fully, deeper.

 

It’s slow and sensuous and lazy in a way that suggests alcohol has softened them both up, made them languorous and hazy. 

 

He takes his time kissing her, stroking his tongue over hers, sucking the muscle into his mouth and making her twitch and gasp against him. They’re half-hidden in the shadow of the alleyway and he considers the feasibility of rolling her beneath him, pinning her to the rough brick of the wall and hitching her leg up over his hip. 

 

“Sam,” he murmurs against her lips, fingertips slipping beneath her top and stroking over the soft, warm skin above the waistband of her jeans. 

 

“Want you,” she pants against his mouth, rolling her hips towards him. “You want me?”

 

It’s then that he hears it—a slur to her words. He’s immediately reminded of how much they’ve both had to drink and once more, Hammond’s warning rings in his ears: _Are we going to have a problem here?_

 

Jack pulls away from her, flattening his palms against the small of her back. She pouts playfully before leaning back up towards him, lips parted and searching. She just barely brushes her lips over his before he’s turning away, her lips pressing firmly against his cheek instead.

 

“Jack,” she gasps, kissing the underside of his jaw and stroking her hands down his chest and settling dangerously low on his abdomen, her pinky brushing over his belt buckle. 

 

He closes his eyes, willing himself to be in control, and slides his hands up her arms to cup her cheeks, holding her face between his hands. 

 

“Not like this, Sam,” he says softly, lips brushing over her forehead, her temple, her nose, her lips. “Not like this,” he breathes out.

 

He won’t be the one to destroy her career—her future—and he certainly won’t do it while she’s not in control of her own mind. If she sobers up and remembers this, still _wants_ him, then maybe—maybe—there’s a discussion to be had. 

 

Sam groans and drops her head against his shoulder, tucking herself into his arms, head beneath his chin and hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re a good man,” she sighs out, words slurred from alcohol and exhaustion.

 

He closes his eyes against her words, bites back the knee-jerk objection, and instead holds her close, stroking his hand over her back, up and down, in soothing, repetitive motions. When Sam’s lips brush against his neck, when her soft exhalations puffed against his skin, he grit his teeth and remembered Hammond’s warning. 

 

“O’Neill.”

 

Jack looks up at the sound of Teal’c’s voice, deep and questioning. He sags against the wall and holds Carter up—Carter, who has drifted to sleep in his arms, the exhaustion of the game and the late hour and alcohol finally catching up to her. He smiles and fights the urge to brush a last kiss to the top of her head.

 

“T! You got room for one more in that van of yours?”

 

Teal’c looks between his captain and his teammate without judgement, silently assessing. He nods, bowing slightly, and move to take Sam from his arms. 

 

“I shall return her home safely, Captain.”

 

He eases Carter into Teal’c’s arms and this time, he cannot fight the urge. He brushes a lock of hair from her face, finger softly tracing along her hairline. Teal’c clears his throat and shifts the woman in his arms.

 

“O’Neill?”

 

Jack snaps out of it, blames the gesture on the last of the alcohol coursing through his veins, and coughs, rubbing a hand over his hair. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, get her home, T. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

 

With a rolling stomach and lurching heart, Jack watches as Teal’c loads Carter up into the back of his van and drives off into the night. He staggers back to the alley, tries to feel the imprint of his and Sam’s tangled hands pressed against the brick, and slides down to sit at the base of the wall.

 

_What have they done?_


	10. earlier behavior

The next morning was spend studiously _not_ looking at his phone while Jack brushed his teeth and laced up his boots and grabbed a PowerBar on the way out the door to the mid-morning team meeting. 

 

But on the drive to the arena, the windows down and the soundtrack for some movie he and Carter watched a few weeks ago filling the cab of hi truck, he couldn’t help but notice his phone remained carefully glassy and blank—no text messages, no phone calls, no nothing. Except, that is, from a single text from Teal’c letting him know that Sam was home safe and had taken a little tumble out of the van, but appeared to be completely fine.

 

Last night, he’d stumbled up to his bedroom, stripping as he went, until he flopped into a bed that felt suddenly too empty. With the memory of Sam’s lips on his, his hands on her hips, and her breathy, gasp of _Want you_ , sleep had not come easily. He'd replayed the kiss over and over in his mind and tortured himself with what-ifs and possibilities before finally dropping off into sleep. She’d been so hot against him—hot mouth, hot hands, hot tongue—and it felt like he’d been cold for so long.

 

The uncertainty he felt, however, as he pulled into the parking lot in the now-familiar spot next to Carter’s Indian, was making him anxious and unfurling from the center of his chest like creeping, cold coils and killing any of the heat from last night. 

 

The offices and administrative hallways were long and winding and he passed Doc Fraiser in the hallways. She was carrying a grocery bag full of bananas and sport drinks chock-full of electrolytes. 

 

She grinned ruefully at him. “You know, when I signed on for sports medicine, curing hangovers wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. You mind getting your teammates under control, Captain?”

 

Jack took the banana and drink that Janet pushed at him and kept walking down the hall towards the team briefing room, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ll do my best, Doc.”

 

Before slipping into the meeting room, Jack took a swig of the sports drink in an effort to calm the sudden eruption of butterflies and nerves in his stomach. With a deep breath and a reminder that he was a team captain in the national hockey league and not some high school jock working up the courage to talk to the popular girl, he pushed the door open and joined the rest of his team.

 

The sight that greeted him made him smirk. Kawalsky was leaned back in his chair, sunglasses still firmly on, and looking for all the world like he was spending every ounce of energy into breathing in and out. Daniel and Jonas were leaning against each other and clutching their drinks tightly in their hand, groaning softly. Teal’c, who had not overly-indulged the previous night, simply looked on at the rest of his teammates with a raised eyebrow that Jack had come to understand as fond exasperation. 

 

And then he caught sight of her. 

 

Curled up in her usual chair—the one next to his—Sam was looking adorably pathetic. Her hair was damp and curling at the nape of her neck like she was only a few minutes past stepping out of a hot shower. In her spinning chair, a leg was pulled up and bent and tucked against her body as she rested her chin on her knee. And, to Jack’s delight, she looked cozy and soft wrapped up in a faded Stargates sweatshirt and black pants. 

 

He swallowed hard at the sight of her, tamping down the urge to wrap her up in his arms, and forced an indulgent grin onto his face as he took his seat next to her. 

 

“Lookin’ rough there, Carter.”

 

A glare and a groan was his only answer. 

 

He laughed and nudged her chair with his, the nerves and uncertainty disappearing when faced with her. Talking to Carter, teasing Carter, was as easy as breathing. 

 

“It hurts to blink,” she grumbled, looking up at him pitifully.

 

Leaning in close to her, the arm of his chair knocking against hers, he lowered his voice. “There’s no quiz after the play review this week so you can close your eyes. I won’t tell anyone.”

 

He made a gesture as if zipping his mouth closed and winked at her when she rolled her eyes at him. Their eyes met for a second and Jack’s heart sped up, his mouth going dry and hands sweaty. It felt more like he was headed into Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals rather than trying to work up the nerve to say _something_ about the fact that he now knew what her tongue in his mouth felt like and how the sound of her groaning against him made him hard and wanting.

 

Sam licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak and then—

 

“Kawalsky! Sit your ass up!”

 

Coach Hammond blew into the briefing room, mouth turned down in a harsh frown. Kawalsky snapped forward in his chair, sunglasses falling askew, and hands going to his head in pain. Daniel and Jonas and the rest of the Stargates crew who were nursing hangovers and generally feeling sorry for themselves sat up straight in their chairs, trying to conceal their winces and groans. 

 

Hammond stalked to the head of the table and sat, surveying his team disappointedly. “I sincerely hope,” he drawled, eyes fixating on each and every one of them, “you’re all prepared to take detailed notes on last night’s game. I’ll be quizzing each and every one of you.”

 

Sam snuck a look at her Captain and he grinned and shook his head slightly. She ducked her head to hide her smile, turning her attention back to Hammond and the play packets he was passing out.

 

Jack felt warmed by the interaction—like it was their own little secret. 

 

The ensuing two hours was spent poring over footage of last night’s game. Beside him, he felt Carter tense and keep her head low as Hammond, sternly and not unkindly, pointed out where she fell flat last night.

 

“Carter, O’Neill had your back—“

 

“More like her backside,” McKay chimed in from the end of the table, earning him a sharp glare from Jack and the rest of the Stargates. Sam’s cheeks flared red and her head remained ducked.

 

Hammond continued, ignoring the outburst. “O’Neill had your back and Kawalsky was open on the left wing. And yet you tried to take on three defenders alone. What did you do wrong?”

 

Sam cleared her throat and faced Hammond, gaze unwavering. “I should have passed it, sir.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

Sam hesitated before visibly steeling herself, straightening in her chair and gritting her teeth. “Because I had a chip on my shoulder and something to prove.” 

 

It sounded like it cost her something to admit this and he felt for her. But he’d been in the seat where she was now: grilled by a coach after a bad game. He didn’t envy her even as he thought back to Jacob Carter in the stands, staring dispassionately as his daughter struggled on the ice.

 

Hammond nodded in satisfaction, pleased with Sam’s no-nonsense answer. Rookies and newbies tended to be defensive, excuses up the ass to explain a piss-poor performance. But not Sam and he knew that she’d just earned another notch of respect from the General.

 

With a click of a pointer, the play review continued on the large projector screen and Jack let his knee nudge against hers beneath the table—a small offering of support. He waited for her to nudge his knee back as he’d become accustomed to from her during these meetings. 

 

But it never came.

____________________

 

About an hour later, the lights flicked back on in the briefing room and Jack could have sworn Hammond was fighting back a smile when the Stargates who were nursing the worst of the hangovers groaned at the sudden flare of light. 

 

“Alright,” Hammond started, standing at the head of the table with his hands on his hips, surveying his team. “Go see Fraiser if you need a banana bag and get the hell out of here. We have a game in Nevada in two days. Flight leaves bright and early. The details will be emailed out to you.”

 

Jonas piped up, leafing through the copious notes he had taken. “So, no quiz?”

 

This time, Hammond did smile. “No, Quinn. No quiz. _Except_ ,” he said, turning a disapproving look onto McKay at the end of the table. “McKay. You can keep your ass in that chair. Everyone else: dismissed.”

 

There was a hasty squeak of chairs as the Stargates emptied the room and beelined for Fraiser’s office. They heard Hammond lay into McKay about respecting fellow teammates and riding the bench the rest of the season.

Outside in the hallway, Jack hung back where Sam was hitching her bag up over her shoulder and wincing as Hammond’s voice picked up in volume. The hallway was now empty and it left Sam and Jack alone. 

 

“Um, Captain? About my earlier behavior last night, I—“ Her cheeks flushed a hot red and she dropped her gaze from his, fiddling with the straps of her bag with one hand and the hem of her sweatshirt with the other. 

 

Everything about her screamed to him that she was uncomfortable and embarrassed. Disappointment and regret blossomed into a spreading warmth in his chest and down his arms and into his legs. 

 

She was about to apologize; about to tell him it was a drunken mistake and didn’t mean anything and could they just forget it all? He thought back to the way Carter had carefully moved her knee from his—another way to carefully pull back and reestablish boundaries. 

 

The sting of rejection and hurt settled over him for a moment before he gathered up the little pride he had, swallowing down the words he had practiced over and over in his mind during the play review—something about making a go of it and keeping it under the radar and maybe getting a drink sometime, if she was interested. 

 

He cut her off before he had to listen to her stumble and fumble over a gentle letdown. Tugging nervously on the brim of his cap, he waved her off. 

 

“Ah, Carter, I don’t even remember your earlier behavior.”

 

_Lie._

 

She faltered for a moment, brow furrowing in confusion, head tilting to the side. “You don’t?”

 

He cleared his throat and kept flicking his gaze from her eyes to a spot behind her on the wall, fidgeting with his truck keys—anything to keep his hands occupied and busy and away from the temptation of touching her and confessing everything. 

 

“Nope,” he said, popping the _p_ sound. “I was, uh, pretty hammered last night, too. Barely remember getting home.”

 

_Lie again._

 

“Right,” Sam said slowly, eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure him out, like a piece of the puzzle wasn’t fitting in where it should go. “Well, then, I guess, good.”

 

“Yeah,” he echoed softly. “Good.”

 

_Liar, liar._

An awkward tension passed over them and Jack scrambled for something—anything—to stop Sam from looking too closely at him. If she kept looking at him, kept trying to pick him apart, she’d see through him and see that he _did_ remember and he wanted so, so much more.

 

“How’s the head?”

 

Carter’s confusion deepened the lines around her mouth. “Head?”

 

“Teal’c said you took a tumble out of the van last night. I was concerned.”

 

“You were?” Was he imaging the delight in her voice—the slight uptick in tone that said to him she was pleased he was concerned for her?

 

He needed to misdirect now before Sam realized just _how_ concerned he was. The last thing she needed was a lecherous old captain who couldn’t keep his feelings in check for her. 

 

Opting for a bit of light-hearted, friendly teasing, Jack punched her arm as he would do for any one of his teammates and grinned at her. “Sure. I was _concerned_ you wouldn’t come back out with us to O’Malley’s and I’d miss the chance to see you try and karaoke again, Carter.”

 

_Carter, not Sam._

 

Her smile faded a bit before she straightened up and rolled her eyes at him. “Never gonna happen, Captain.”

 

_Captain._

 

Jack pushed her along the hallway. “Yeah, yeah. Now, go see Fraiser and go home. I’ll see you on the tarmac in a few days.”

 

She nodded and murmured her goodbyes before heading off to Janet’s office. 

 

Jack tried not to feel a sting at the fact that she didn’t look back at him once, even as he watched her disappear around the corner and away from him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you made it through this garbage chapter. I'm so sorry it took so long for....this. I promise the coming chapters will be updating much more quickly and the writing will have improved greatly. Thanks for sticking it out with me.


	11. away game

He’s already in a bad mood when he boards the Stargates’ private plane for their first away game. The previous day’s practice had gone fine, he supposes. Hammond had run them hard with drill after drill, demanding nothing short of perfection. 

 

He’d split the team into two and he and Carter had been on opposing sides of the ice all practice, rotating through the various drills and plays apart from each other. He didn’t like playing without her, even if it was just practice. Although they had discussed and settled the events of the bar and subsequent kiss, Jack still felt off-kilter.

 

The feeling that something was off only intensified when Carter wouldn’t meet his eye from across the rink and quickly skated off to the locker room. He’d frowned after her as she disappeared into her own, personal locker room and hustled through his own shower and cool-down to try and catch her before she left.

 

But when he got out to his truck, her Indian was gone and she was nowhere be found. 

 

He’d gone to bed that night angry and frustrated and a little buzzed off Colorado’s finest and frostiest. To top it all off, between the early wake-up call and Carter’s strange behavior, leaving for the first away game brought up memories of being greeted by Charlie in the kitchen.

 

Charlie, who used to wake up early with him when he knew he had to travel, and would help Sarah in the kitchen brew his coffee and make breakfast. Charlie, who hugged him tight and grinned up at him, needling Jack to let him skip school and tag along. 

 

“You can just zip me up in the equipment bag, Dad. I don’t even need a seat!”

 

Except Charlie was gone and there was no one to greet him in the kitchen with a smile and a cup of coffee.

 

So when he slides into the window seat at the front of the plane with a nod to Hammond and the rest of his team, he just wants to get this game over with and be back home. And maybe, he thinks with a savage kind of satisfaction that he hadn’t felt since his rookie days, he could take out some of his frustrations with a well-placed body check and maybe stoke an on-ice fight.

 

The plane rumbles to life when Sam stumbles onto the plane looking bleary-eyed, hair a wild mess, and headphones dangling from around her neck. He grins at her and wants to make a crack about beauty sleep.

 

And then her eyes trace over the open seat next to Jack before darting behind him and then back to Jack. The whole exchange takes less than a few seconds but Jack feels his heart fall into his stomach and his bad mood worsen when Sam brushes past him to take a seat next to Daniel instead a few rows back. 

 

He scowls and jams his headphones in his ears and lets Wagner and the Valkyries fuel his bad mood and anger.

 

____________________

 

They play like absolute shit against the Chulak Knights. Jack isn’t arrogant enough to think it’s solely because of whatever is going on—or not going on—between him and Sam. But Teal’c seems strangely tense to be back in his old hometown and from the way the big goalie’s eyes keep drifting to a woman and young boy in the stands, Jack thinks it might be personal. 

 

Daniel, Jonas, and Kawalsky get beat on every play and McKay can’t tell his ass from offsides and ends up stopping any rhythm the Stargates manage to get going. 

 

And Jack? Jack is itching for a fight. He’s riding the edge of ejection, he knows, but it feels so damn good to play a little dirty.

 

His stick checks a little high and he throws an elbow when the ref isn’t looking. He goes hard on the ice, skating for him and his frustration alone. When he drops a shoulder and tackles a big Chulak player—Cronos something or other—it feels good to throw down gloves and helmets and sticks and start throwing punches. 

 

What he doesn’t expect is for the Knights to rush to Cronos’ defense or for the Stargates to skate towards the skirmish, intent on simultaneously breaking it up and joining in. He hadn’t meant for a team fight to erupt. No matter how frustrated and angry Jack O’Neill was, he would never endanger the safety of his team. 

 

But Daniel and Quinn are pushing and shoving the players on the fight’s perimeter and Kawalsky is right next to him, yelling and shouting insults that would make a sailor blush. Adrenaline and heat rush through his veins during the fight and he can’t help but grin against his mouthguard, even as it fills with the copper tang taste of blood. _Now_ he feels better. 

 

Until, that is, he sees Carter. 

 

Carter, who wouldn’t dare be left behind or out of a fight. Carter, who drops gloves and sticks just like the rest of them and skates full speed into the rumble, letting out a harsh grunt and groan when the Knights’ team captain, Apophis, knocks the wind out of her sails by taking a stick to the back of her knees in a move so dirty, Jack sees red. 

 

He’s pushing at Cronos and shuffling on his skates to get to her, to shield her from wayward skate blades and sticks, when—to his astonishment—he sees her shimmy back on the ice and sink her teeth into a stray Chulak player’s hand who was reaching down to pick up her stick for her. 

 

Shock at her actions barely has time to set in before the refs are finally pulling everyone apart and she is pushing herself up off the ice and onto her skates, picking up her stick and skating determinedly back to the Stargates bench.

 

Jack follows alongside her and presses a hand to his bleeding nose and eyebrow. Fraiser is going to have kittens, he just knows it. Sam catches his eye and he knows he’s been caught staring. 

 

“What?” she asks defensively, raising an eyebrow. 

 

He grins at her through the blood on his face. “Nothing. Just, uh, if I’m ever in an ice fight with you again, Carter…well, I like your attitude.”

 

She blushes and shuffles her stick from hand to hand, looking down and hiding a smile from him. A Sam Carter smile. His day is already looking up. 

 

“If I’m every in an ice fight with you again, Captain, I’ll—“

 

“Bite everyone in the hand?”

 

She grins at him, this time not bothering to hide it. “Yes, sir.”

 

They stay like that for a second, staring and smiling at each other and Jack feels whatever was _wrong_ shift back into place and he feels balanced again. But the moment is killed by Fraiser tutting over him and pressing coagulating powder to his eyebrow and stuffing cotton swabs up his nose, harassing him about fighting. 

 

“Honestly, Jack. Leave the fighting to the rookies.”

 

He rolls his eyes at Fraiser before winking at Sam who grins at him and chews on her mouthguard as she hops over the wall to their bench and back onto he ice to resume play. 

 

It’s the best game of his life—even if Hammond yells and rails during intermission; even if it’s the game that breaks their win streak; even if they lose.

 

And afterwards, when they sit in front of a panel of press and cameras and take questions, Sam sits next to him. Beneath the table, as he defends his team’s efforts and spills platitudes about doing better next time, her foot slides next to his and nudges him when he gets a little too irreverent with the press. 

 

It’s all the more encouragement to keep being an ass if it means Sam will keep doing that. 

 

____________________

 

At the hotel, he stretches out on the bed with a groan. Despite the knock to his age, Fraiser was absolutely right. He’s getting too old and too creaky to fight like a twenty-year old on the ice. His left eyebrow is split open and held together with butterfly strips and the skin around his eyes and nose are dark in the way that indicates his nose is just this side of broken. 

 

But he’d refused to let Fraiser bandage up his knuckles. Maybe it was some alpha male part of him shining through, but ever since he’d gotten into his first fight on the ice back when he was a teenager, he’d taken great pleasure and pride in displaying split, bruised, and bloodied knuckles. 

 

He’s contemplating ordering in room service or maybe wandering to the nearest burger joint (he’s long past the point of going out with the boys to bars and clubs of whatever local city they’ve flown into), when a soft knock at his door startles him.

 

Wincing at his creaking knees and popping hips, he crosses the rom to open the door to reveal a nervous-looking Samantha Carter holding an ice bucket and a greasy-looking bag of food that smells like meat and salt and fries.

 

“Carter?”

 

She holds up her goods with a nervous smile. “Figured you’ve be needing both of these.”

 

He huffs out a laugh and holds the door open to let her in. There’s only a small writing table in the corner, so the only seat he can offer her is the bed. She eyes the rumpled sheets for a moment before swallowing and sitting where he’s gestured. 

 

Jack sits next to her, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her body through their sweats. 

 

“Figured you’d be out with Daniel and Kawalsky and the boys. Or Fraiser, maybe?” 

 

She snorts and reaches into the ice bucket to begin assembling a facsimile of an ice pack, wrapping ice cubes in the hotel towel. 

 

“I’m pretty sure I heard Kawalsky say something about karaoke and Daniel can’t hold his liquor. I don’t want to be the one dragging their asses back here.”

 

The laughter he feels bubbling up inside him is doused quickly by his heart leaping into his throat when Sam takes his right hand, knuckles split open, in her hand and tugging it into her lap. 

 

“This might hurt,” she warns before pressing the cold ice pack to his split skin. He hisses at the contact and she winces in apology. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you can still flex your hand at least.”

 

“Lots of experience with this, do you, Carter?”

 

“I’ve been in my fair share of fights, too. Fighting isn’t exclusive to men’s hockey,” she reminds him, a sharp edge to her voice.

 

He raises his free hand in supplication. “Never said it did. Just wondering how much experience _you_ have with fighting.”

 

“I’ve had my moments,” she responds enigmatically. Jack likes the idea of Sam going hard on the ice, throwing punches and dropping her shoulder. It fits with the feisty, kickass woman he’s come to know. He thinks of the way she’d so readily thrown down along side the Stargates, the way she sunk her teeth into the hand of the opposing player. Yeah, he bets she’d had her moments.

 

Her fingers probe gently at his hand absentmindedly, callused and bruised hands stroking and pressing on his hand, checking for signs of broken bones. He leans over and lowers his voice, teasing. “You know Doc Fraiser already cleared me, right? No broken bones.”

 

She flushes and ducks her head before pressing the ice pack more firmly onto his hand and then his hand into his lap. He immediately regrets saying anything because the heat from her hands was doing wonders for the ache in his knuckles.

 

Clearing his throat, he clutches the ice to his hand and leans away from her, giving her space. The last thing he wants to do is invite the awkwardness from the last 24 hours back between them. 

 

“So, you didn’t want to go out with the boys or ol’ Doc Fraiser, so you decided the next best thing was hanging out with your captain?”

 

“Well,” she says with a smile, reaching for the greasy paper bag that has been making his mouth water. “You and a greasy burger and maybe a movie?” And then a look of uncertainty crosses her face and she looks unsure. “Unless, you’d rather just take the burger and I can leave?”

 

“No!” He clears his throat and then more softly, “No. That’s okay, Carter. You can stay. If-if you want.”

 

Her only response is to hand him the hot, wrapped burger and a carton of fries. They twist on the bed, their backs propped up against the headboard, and watch Star Wars. He steals the bacon off her burger and he rolls his eyes and hands her the fries that she’s been eyeing all night. 

 

By the end of the movie, after Luke has used the Force to take out the Death Star and Jack has thoroughly teased Sam for being able to quote along to most of the movie, he realizes something spectacular: his knuckles don’t hurt at all. 

____________________

The following morning, the Stargates board the plane once more to fly back home. Jack ruffles Daniel’s hair affectionately when the young man clings to the air sick bag in the back of the seat. Carter was right—he can’t hold his drink. 

 

Hammond, meanwhile, is still scowling and scribbling in a thick binder of plays and reviews. He doesn’t envy the burden on the Coach’s shoulders. 

 

He slides into his usual seat by the window in the front of the plane and pulls out the battered sci-fi adventure novel he’s been steadily working his way through. He’s just about to find out what happened to the intrepid, time-traveling and space-traveling military heroes when a warm presence slides into the seat next to him.

 

Looking up, startled, Jack finds a smiling Samantha Carter sitting next to him. 

 

“Is this seat taken?”

 

He grins at her and tucks his book away into his bag and leans back into his seat, finally feeling settled. They’re going to be okay. 

 

“Not at all, Carter. Not at all.”


	12. redux; a new chapter begins

Jack takes a deep, steadying breath and fortifies himself against the ache settling in his chest as dozens of children—ages ranging from barely toddling along the ice to early adolescents still gangly and growing into their limbs—skate their way across the Stargates’ ice rink.

 

Professional hockey was more than just playing games and attending practice and he had somehow forgotten the local children’s skate that the organization held annually. It was a win-win for everyone: the Stargates got a public relations boost and the kids got a day with a professional hockey team. 

 

On the far end of the ice, Teal’c, Daniel, and Quinn organize a group of pre-teens into a quick game of freeze tag—a fun, easy way to teach skate control. The kids squeal and laugh as they chas after each other, the Stargates players joining in and intentionally icing the younger kiddos who shriek with delight when the spray of ice hit their jerseys. 

 

A sharp stab of pain settles behind Jack’s chest bone as the sound of children’s laughter filters through the arena. Once upon a time, his little boy had skated on this ice as he provided fake commentary, laughing when his son skated victory laps over the freshly Zamboni’d ice, performing for an imaginary crowd chanting his name: _Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!_

 

Flashes of light from the local press catches his attention to his left and a small, soft smile crosses his face at the sight that greets him: Samantha Carter, decked out in jeans and a loose-fitting green Stargates jersey, surrounded by the largest group of girls the Stargates hockey program had had in a long time. 

 

His gaze drifts to the stands where the press stands, eagerly eating up the scene in front of them. 

 

Grinning and pushing off on his back foot, he glides towards her, lazily moving a puck across the ice. Only a few hours ago, Carter had been pacing in the arena’s hallways, fretting about talking with the kids and relating to them, worried about the burden on her shoulders of inspiring the influx of young girls.

 

Now, she is bright-eyed and smiling at the center of a group of girls, showing them how to adjust their grip on their sticks and giving them tips on how to use their speed against their opponents. 

 

“I can tell you from experience, Carter is one of the fastest members of his team and I’ve seen plenty of grown men eat her ice.”

 

Carter ducks her head to hide a pleased smile and he catches just the barest hint of flush on her cheeks. Then, biting her lip, she looks at the girls conspiratorially before jerking her head in Jack’s direction and winking at them. 

 

“Jack would know,” she says, eyes twinkling, “since he’s one of the ones who’s eaten my ice.”

 

The girls giggle into their hockey gloves as he and Sam grin at one another, skates knocking together at the toe as Jack nudges her shoulder with his. 

 

“Watch it, Carter,” he warns, dropping his voice low. “Or you’ll be skating lines.”

 

“You wish,” she teases back, the tip of her tongue visible behind her wide smile.

 

He claps his hands and rubs them together, turning his attention to the kids with glee and skating circles around them, tapping them on the shoulder. “Duck, duck, duck, duck—“

 

Behind him, Sam sighs and rolls her eyes, leaning against the wall to wait for Jack to shout _Goose!_ and take off down the middle of the ice. They’d played this at the last Stargates practice—much to the General’s amusement—as grown men chased each other around the rink, pushing and handling pucks as well, for an added challenge. 

 

Except this time, instead of yelling _Goose_ , he turns and faces them all and shrugs, exclaiming, “Lunch!”

 

He and Carter skate side-by-side quietly, shoulders and elbows occasionally brushing, watching as the kiddos clamor around the rink’s entrance and strip their skates off before running for the lunch tables. 

 

Jack huffs out a laugh and, once more, images of Charlie cross his mind: Charlie sitting on their back porch after an afternoon out on the frozen lake in the backyard, begging for a peanut butter and apple sandwich, eagerly devouring one sandwich before stealing Jack’s matching sandwich. 

 

A warm hand covers his forearm, squeezing gently and jarring him out of his thoughts. Carter’s blue eyes met his, searching, as she slows them to a stop at center ice. 

 

“You okay?”

 

Jack thinks about brushing her concern off, thinks about cracking a joke and pulling his arm away. Except Charlie had been at the forefront of his mind all day—how could he not be with scores of kiddos doing the thing his son loved the most? And the ache in his chest and the weight on his shoulders is pulling him down and Sam has pretty strong shoulders—he’d know, since he’d spent so much time admiring them. 

 

Swallowing roughly, he shrugs. “My son used to love this day. He’d always tag along so he could play with the other kids. It’s—“ His throat grows thick with emotion and he clears his throat, looking away and focusing on the memory of Charlie’s smiling, toothy grin. “It’s hard to be here and not have him here, too.”

 

Sam’s hand on his forearm tightens, squeezing in an offer of comfort. “It’s okay for it to be hard. You know that, right?” He looks away, his chest tight with emotion, and desperately looks for a way out. But she holds tight and doesn’t let him go.

 

“It’s okay if you’re not ever okay. When my mom—“ She stops and clutches at his forearm a little tighter, hand slipping down over his wrist in a facsimile of holding his hand. She continues, voice a little shaky. “Just know that I understand—sort of—and it’s okay to not be okay.”

 

He focuses on her hand on his wrist—the contrast of her pale, cold skin against the stark green of his jersey; her fingernails trim and clean and glossy; and lets her words wash over him.

 

Twisting his hand, he captures her fingers with his own and squeezes his thanks, letting her warmth infuse his skin, relishing the feel of her callused palms pressed against his. 

 

“Thanks, Carter,” he said, voice gruff. 

 

For a moment, they stand in the middle of the ice, hands linked and emotion running high between them as grief and support and understanding rush through them. Jack wants to skate the few inches further between them, wants to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her neck and breathe her in and let her hold him up for a few minutes. 

 

She could do it, he knew. 

 

And then another flash of light goes off, startling them from their moment, and Jack glares at the lone paparazzo who waves his camera in cheerful, smug greeting before scampering back to the rest of the press corps. 

 

Clearing his throat and, with regret, taking a few gliding steps back from her and putting space between them, he smiles softly at her.

 

“Let’s go get some grub before Teal’c and the little monsters eat it all.”

 

She laughs and follows his lead, tucking their shared moment away among the dozens of other moments, and picks up the speed of her skate, blowing past him. 

 

“Eat my ice, captain.”

 

He barks out a laugh and follows after her, breaking into a sprint and chasing after her. 

 

“Does it say ‘captain’ _anywhere_ on my jersey?” he calls after her in mock indignation, shaking his head at her insubordination. 

 

But the sharp ache that Charlie’s memory has brought on all day has finally settled into a pain he can live with—a memory that’s more good than bad—and he knows it’s down to the woman currently scooping up bowls of jiggling blue jello and laughing with the children of the Stargates program. 

 

_________________________

 

Across town in a cool, stark business building, Harry Maybourne sifts through the stack of papers and folders on his desk—numbers and graphs and projections and financial forecasts for the next five years for the Stargates franchise. 

 

He’d had it wrong—all wrong. Where he thought that Hammond wouldn’t be able to pull together a team worthy of investing, the old General had surprised him by pulling in the publicity stunt Samantha Carter and the retired veteran Jack O’Neill. 

 

It was a recipe for skyrocketing ticket sales, an uptick in _Carter_ and _O’Neill_ jerseys, and the Stargates hadn’t enjoyed so many season ticket subscribers in _years_. How had he not seen this?

 

In truth, he’d assumed Colorado Springs was done with their professional hockey team. It was why he was so intent on seeing the team’s final season fail. He’d let the organization’s funds wane, sell off the team and the building, and take a nice, hefty chunk of changes for his considerable efforts.

 

But the reports in front of him show that he’d made a serious miscalculation and Hammond and the Stargates had done the impossible. 

 

A commotion outside the thick office door catches his attention and he frowns, leaning forward and pressing the intercom button on his phone.

 

“Makepeace! What the hell is going on out there?”

 

In response, his office door flies open and a woman with stark white hair and a lean frame stands silhouetted in the doorway. Behind her, Makepeace, his assistant, apologizes profusely, explaining that she—Mrs. Langford—had simply walked in and demanded entrance.

 

Maybourne tilts his head, running the woman’s last name— _Langford—_ through his mind. Hazily, he remembers an old Colorado Springs family with old money leaving the town behind for grand adventures abroad. Even with all of his connections throughout the city, Maybourne hadn’t known the Langfords had made a return.

 

He gestures her in with a crocodile smile, sharp and intriguing. “Come in, Mrs. Langford, please.”

 

The woman shoots a cool glare at his bedraggled assistance before entering the office more fully. But she does not sit in front of his desk; she stands and peers down at him. 

 

“Mr. Maybourne, I’ll make this visit short,” she says. The voice he expects to be frail is strong and sure and suddenly Harry Maybourne is certain that things are about to go very, very wrong for him. 

 

He settles into his high-backed chair and waves her on to continue, eyes narrowing at the older woman. “Please,” he says, tone falsely polite. “Let me know how I can help you today.”

 

“When I was a little girl, my parents took me to Egypt—Giza, actually,” she starts, ignoring Maybourne’s words. “I _hated_ it. I missed Colorado—the cold, the snow, the people.” She trails off before adding, “The hockey team.”

 

“My parents couldn’t stand my unhappiness and they had the Stargates games sent by satellite for me. It was a little piece of home away from home and I never missed a game. So you can imagine my disappointment,” she continues, voice turning sharp and eyes fixating on Maybourne, “when I find out the team that I _love_ has fallen into the hands of a greedy, uneducated businessman.”

 

Maybourn stands, spluttering. “Mrs. Langford,” he interrupts, bristling. “I assure you, greedy I may be but uneducated I am not. I have degrees from—“

 

“Tell me, Mr. Maybourne. Can you tell me what icing is?”

 

Silence.

 

“How about a penalty kill?”

 

More silence.

 

“I thought as much,” Catherine Langford says. “I have decided, my dear man, that I’m rather tired of watching you run the team that I love into the ground. Yes, yes, I’ve seen your financials. You’re a public team, Mr. Maybourne.”

 

Maybourne watches, open-mouthed and heart pounding, speechless, as Langford reaches into her small handbag and pulls out a thick, folded stack of papers that she drops with satisfaction onto his desk. 

 

“What is this?” he asks with a snarl, snapping the papers up and rifling through them, pulling the papers apart and searching for their meaning. 

 

“That,” the older woman says with triumph, “is the paperwork that hands ownership the Colorado Springs Stargates to the Langford Institute. It’s time someone who knows what thehell they’re doing sit in that chair.”

 

Maybourne collapses back into the high-backed chair, stunned surprise coiling through his veins as he reads over the contracted paperwork. She is absolutely correct; the papers don’t lie. 

 

As of early this morning, Catherine Langford and the Langford Institute had purchased the Stargates out from under him, rendering him completely useless with nothing but a severance package to his name. 

 

Walking around the desk, Catherine plucked the papers from the businessman’s hands and leaned down, a serene smile on her face. 

 

“Mr. Maybourne? Get the hell out of my chair.”

 

And just like that, in the span of three minutes, a new chapter of the Stargates’ journey was about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so much happier with this chapter than the last and this WILL be a new direction for the fic. More fluff! More Sam and Jack! 
> 
> 100% credit to Sharim for coming up with the idea to have Catherine buy Maybourne out (which took care of his dumb, pesky storyline). 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me, fam.


	13. bagels and bubble hockey

On his first day off in ages—no team meetings, no practice, no games, no press and media interviews—Jack has every intention of sleeping in and stretching out on his back porch with a cup of coffee and the latest installment of the military sci-fi adventure series he’s been steadily devouring on the road. 

 

Instead, a chorus of “Captain!” and the sounds of knuckles pounding on his front door jar him out of sleep bright and early. The sun is just sneaking over the Colorado horizon and when he pulls his front door open, bleary-eyed and clad in only a thin grey t-shirt and Simpsons pajama pants, he is met with a newspaper thrust into his face and half of his team crowded and piled together on his front porch.

 

“When were you going to tell us the team was up for sale?” Daniel asks indignantly, standing on his tiptoes to peer over Teal’c’s shoulder. The group—including Kawalsky, Quinn, Daniel, Teal’c, and in the center of them all, Carter—stands on his front porch, looking at him questioningly. 

 

He blinks at them all, newspaper clutched in his hands by his side, trying to force his sleep-addled brain to process why the hell his team is bundled up in front of him this early in the morning. 

 

“Well, good morning to you too, children.” He stares at them all, taking in their flushed and expectant faces. 

 

Teal’c holds up a large canteen of steaming hot coffee and a giant bag of bagels from the local bakery around the corner. “We are calling a team meeting, O’Neill. And we have brought breakfast.”

 

Dreams of his own Irish-spiked coffee and book disappearing, Jack sighs and holds the door open. “C’mon then.”

 

The team piles into his house, stripping themselves of their coats, scarves, and hats. Living alone had made him accustomed to the sight of only his own coat hanging by the front door and now, with his teammates’ apparel hanging beside his own jacket, Jack pauses for a moment, heart surprisingly tender. The sight of Carter’s smaller, feminine jacket next to his is a particular punch to the gut and the force of the longing he feels is nearly overwhelming. 

 

His team makes their way into the house, heading for the kitchen and working on spreading out the bagels and cream cheese buffet-style along his kitchen counter. Teal’c and Daniel work together to pull out mugs, creamer, and sugar and begin pouring coffee out for everyone. 

 

Jack catches Sam’s arm, voice low. “A little warning woulda been nice, Carter.”

 

She grins up apologetically at him. “I tried to send you a text message this morning. Daniel started wrangling us together this morning when he found out.” She pauses and glares across his kitchen at her floppy-haired teammate. “ _Very_ early this morning.”

 

Jack bites back a smile at the sight of Carter shooting daggers at Daniel. After a few road games with her, he knows first hand that Carter—despite her penchant for early morning hockey practice—is the last one to trudge down the stairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast, always bee-lining for the coffee first and collapsing into the chair beside Jack with a soft, displeased grunt, as if she can’t believe the morning had the audacity to come. 

 

Padding in behind the rest of his team, Jack tosses the newspaper down onto the kitchen island and passes Carter a chive and cream cheese bagel and steaming cup of coffee before snagging his own cinnamon bagel—his sweet tooth didn’t know the meaning of _conditioning_ —and coffee. 

 

“Alright,” he announces through a mouthful of bagel, drawing the attention of his team. “Someone wanna fill me in on why the hell you’re all here on our day off?”

 

“Catherine Langford bought out Maybourne!” Daniel chimes in, looking at Jack accusatorially. “Why didn’t you tell us we were coming under new management?”

 

A hush falls over the kitchen, his team going silent and waiting, and Jack swallows his bite of bagel, eyes meeting Daniel’s over his cup of coffee. “I didn’t tell you, Daniel,” he says slowly, turning his gaze to meet each of his teammates’, “because I didn’t know for sure the deal was going to go through. Hammond mentioned it to me in passing and the last either of us heard, it was still a deal in the works. I understand it was all very under the table—no press, no announcement, until it was done.”

 

Daniel looks abashed at this and Jack catches sight of Kawalsky elbowing him in the side, murmuring something under his breath that Jack can’t hear but causes Daniel to frown and duck his head. 

 

“What does this mean for us, Captain?” Jonas asks, taking a monstrous bite of his bagel and chewing happily. Jonas really, _really_ liked food. Where Carter was the last to join the team for breakfast in the mornings, Jonas was first, usually with a pile of plates surrounding him and an assortment of pastries, omelettes, and pancakes in front of him. 

 

Jack sighs and replaces the bagel in his hand with the forgotten newspaper. The headline reads _LANGFORD LASSOES STARGATES IN MANAGEMENT SHAKE-UP._

 

“Subtle,” Jack murmurs, tossing the paper back down on the countertop. “The General and I both would have preferred to tell everyone in person. We didn’t expect this to happen so quickly or overnight.” He frowns for a moment, wondering what the impetus for the quick deal may have been. It’s a question for Hammond at the next practice. 

 

“As for what this means for us, well…” He trails off and shrugs his shoulders. “Catherine’s old Colorado blood and a huge supporter and fan of the franchise. I think we can expect a more relaxed upcoming practice schedule and a little more support from management. It may mean more press and promotional activities now that we’re under someone who actually wants us to succeed.”

 

He rubs a hand over his face, rubbing away the last vestiges of sleep and the upcoming stress of management transition. Beside him, Teal’c fills his cup wordlessly and Jack grunts his appreciation. 

 

“So, this is a good thing?” Carter chimes in, voice lilting and positive. He opens his eyes to see her looking around at the Stargates, beaming and encouraging. For a moment, he is incredibly and positively _grateful_ for her. Carrying the embroidered _C_ on his chest is something he is honored and proud to hold, but in times like these, he is grateful his second is right there beside him to step up and support both him and the team. 

 

“This is a good thing,” Jack confirms, shooting a smile Carter’s way. She ducks her head and rips a piece of bagel off before popping it in her mouth and chewing carefully. “Look,” he continues, ignoring the strange rush of desire he feels at the sight of her jaw flexing, suddenly tempted by the angle of her cheek and jaw, itching to hook his fingers beneath her chin and lift it up so he can reach her mouth and—

 

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head and addresses the rest of his waiting team. “I’ll talk to Hammond and we’ll make sure everyone is on the same page at the next team meeting. I’m sure the General has more information on this than I do. But for now, keep your heads down and keep playing like you’ve been playing. In case you all hadn’t noticed, we’re sitting at the number two seed in our division and playoffs are around the corner.”

 

Kawalsky lets out a loud and thunderous _whoop_ and bangs his fist on the kitchen island which sets off the rest of them, all raucously cheering and revved up once more. Even Sam bangs her fists on the island, laughing and cheering.

 

Jack shakes his head at his teammates, affection welling up within him. It had been too long since he had last had a team like this—a team that was more family than colleague. 

 

They quiet down and it’s Jonas who pipes up first, slyly and shyly making a suggestion. “Captain,” he starts, puppy-dog eyes in full force. “Since we’re all here and we haven’t finished our breakfast yet, we were thinking we could just have a team breakfast?”

 

“Yeah, Cap,” Kawalsky teases. “Can’t we pretty please spend _more_ time together?”

 

“Team bonding is very important to unity and success,” Teal’c intones. 

 

“I just want to finish my bagel,” Daniel shrugs. 

 

“I can stay for a little longer,” Sam admits softly, peering up at him from beneath lowered lashes. 

 

Jack had been ready to agree already, the memory of the stack of coats on his normally-empty rack reminding him how long it had been since he’d had a fully house. And then Carter had chimed in with her soft voice and the promise of _staying_ and that had all but sealed the deal for him.

 

“Alright, alright. You leeches can stay,” he gripes good-naturedly, smiling when Kawalsky and Jonas immediately scoop up their breakfasts and head for his dome hockey table in the back corner of the house, already arguing over who got to be the home and who got to be the away team.

 

Teal’c and Daniel follow dutifully behind them, Teal’c’s deep voice calling, “Dibs,” which sends Carter beside him into a fit of giggles. 

Jack watches the early morning sun play across Sam’s skin, stripes of sunlight and her laugh and her warmth making her more like the sun than the sun itself. Maybe it’s the early morning and the vestiges of sleep; maybe it’s the fact that, despite the four burly hockey players in the other room, she’s finally _here_ in his home with him; maybe it’s because he still wakes in the middle of the night dreaming about her mouth beneath his and her fingers in his hair and her hips pressed against his and—

 

It doesn’t matter why he does it; what matters is that he _does it_. 

 

Without thought, he reaches forward and brushes the tip of his finger across the top of her lip, tracing her smile and rubbing away the smudge of cream cheese clinging to the bow of her mouth. Her smile falls away and her eyes go dark and everything in his house fades and blurs. All he can feel is her hot breath on his fingertip and the way she goes still beneath his touch. 

 

He brings his finger to his own mouth and licks away the savory cream cheese, tongue swirling and hoping to catch a hint of Sam’s own flavor. Her chest rises and falls with her own erratic breathing and Jack releases his finger from his mouth, eyes never leaving hers. 

 

“You had a little—“

 

“Yeah,” she cuts him off, breathy. Her eyes flick down to his mouth and he swallows, tries to remember all the reasons they _can’t_ against all the reasons he really, _really_ wants to lean forward and slant his lips over hers and thread his fingers into her hair and keep her close to him. He wants Samantha Carter in his kitchen every morning. 

 

The pinky of her right hand reaches out and brushes along the curve of his left wrist resting next to her on the kitchen island. Jack sucks in a breath and stares at the place where her skin touches his. 

 

“Jack,” she starts, pinky finger rubbing over the knob of bone in his wrist. “I want—“

 

But what she wants, he’ll never know. From a room away, noise erupts as someone—probably Jonas—scores on the big bubble hockey game and cheers and trash-talking fill his home. Sam’s hand retreats to her lap and she stands on shaky legs, smiling softly at him and scooping up the last bit of her bagel. 

 

“I better go see who’s winning so I know whose ass I’m kicking next.”

 

She disappears through the doorway into the adjacent room and Jack is helpless, unable to do anything but watch her go. His wrist still tingles where her skin had pressed against his and he stares at the spot, thinking.

 

Maybe it was time for more than just management to change, after all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a Struggle to write. such a struggle, i ALMOST asked Nellie to beta it, just to help give it some direction.
> 
> (don't tell her that.)
> 
> But I will say, we probably only have a handful of chapters to go before this bad body is wrapped up. I will be treating it like the No Reservations fic and will add drabbles/one-shots as I think of them. But I think it's time these two crazy kids got laid, don't you?


	14. a win is a win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah hey so it's been 84 years since i've written/updated and i apologize for that! but hopefully this fic will be picking up some speed. i've got a general idea of how this is going to end (semi-soon) and i promise there will be smut before the end. 
> 
> thank you for sticking around this long and i hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! i have lost alllll narrative structure for this story so it's now just a race to get these two laid. as always, this is not beta'd (i found a typo in my last chapter where i said 't-shit' instead of 't-shirt' so that's fun). please enjoy!

Hammond’s whistle from the side of the rink echoes across the ice and signals to the team that practice is ending. A sea of green, white, and black jerseys crowd against the barricade on the home side of the ice, laughter, conversation, and good-natured ribbing scattering across the group as they await Hammond’s closing words. 

 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Hammond commands, tucking his coach’s whistle beneath his shirt and pulling out a trifold paper from his back pocket. “I know you’ve all been working hard and are ready for the All-Star break as we head into playoffs.” 

 

A chorus of excited whoops and cheers and almost a dozen and a half hockey sticks pounding the ice interrupt Hammond. In the month since Catherine Langford acquired the Stargates, the team had managed to have _fun_ together and maintain their position as the number two seed in their division. It meant for the first time in almost a decade, the Stargates were going into the playoffs with more than just a fighting chance. Vegas had more than decent odds on them going all the way to the finals and it was a dizzying thought for such a young team. Jack had been pulled into more than one closed door meeting with Hammond in which it was stressed how important it was that Jack, as the most veteran player on the team _and_ the captain, was expected to lead the team through the playoff season. 

 

The General smiled indulgently at his team before holding up his hands to quiet them down. “Which brings me,” he continued, looking at each of them, “to the matter of All-Star announcements.”

 

The team fell silent and waited with bated breath as Hammond smoothed out the trifold paper and cleared his throat. “Teal’c,” Hammond announced with a proud grin and a small nod to the big goalie. “You will be representing the Stargates as the starting goalie for the Western Conference.” 

 

Teal’c inclined his head and tucked his hockey stick against his chest in a little bow as his teammates whooped and cheered. Kawalsky pounded him on the back in congratulations. 

 

“I will represent us well,” he promised. 

 

With another rustle and shake of his paper, Hammond continued with the announcements. “Jack O’Neill will also be representing the Stargates at the upcoming game and will be sharing captainship with Martouf of the Toronto Tok’ra.”

 

“I always liked old Marty,” Jack said, chest warming at the thought of another All-Star appearance. It was easily one of his favorite parts of these season and was glad that despite being one of the older players in the league, he would be making another trip. A loud round of hoots and hollers erupted once more as the team shuffled in closer towards Jack to pat him on the back and butt in congratulations. 

 

Jack grinned at Carter on his right as she nudged his shoulder with her own and knocked her stick against his. “Congrats, Captain.” 

 

Later, it would be the only congratulations he would remember. 

 

“And finally,” Hammond said. “With an astounding, record-setting majority of the fan vote, Samantha Carter will be the third and final member of the Stargates to attend the All-Star weekend as part of the skills portion of the weekend. She’ll compete in the puck-handling and speed rounds.”

 

Jack turned to see Carter’s face flushed pink and her mouth agape with surprise. The team let out their loudest cheer yet and crowded against her, rapping their knuckles against her helmed good-naturedly and yelling out their congratulations. This time, it was Jack who edged his way to her side and nudged her shoulder with his, leaning down to murmur, “Congratulations, Carter,” into her ear. The top of his lip brushed along the shell of her ear and she turned sharply up to look at him, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. 

 

“Okay, folks, that's it for today. We’ve got a few practices left before the break—those are on your schedule that were handed out at the last team meeting. I would encourage all of you to relax during the All-Star weekend. It’s a time to enjoy yourselves and your teammates before we buckle down for the post-season. I think it goes without saying that we have a more than outstanding chance of going further than any other Stargates team in the past and I have every faith in your abilities as players and people to make it happen.”

 

“Aw, we love you, too, General,” teased Kawalsky from the back, earning himself a round of sniggers from his teammates and an eye roll from Hammond. 

 

“Get out of here, all of you,” Hammond dismissed with a wave of his hand, a small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. They really were one of the best, most cohesive teams he’d ever had the pleasure of coaching. 

 

Hammond watched as O’Neill called for a final team huddle at center ice before the team departed for the locker rooms, Carter skating dutifully to his right. Those two—Carter and O’Neill—were a pair to be reckoned with and he couldn’t wait to see the damage they were going to inflict at the All-Star game.

 

He just hoped the damage would be limited to the ice. 

 

________________________

 

The New England Nox, the home and hosting team this year, had really gone all out, Jack decided as he surveyed the lights, decorations and banners, and entertainment set-up happening around the arena. 

 

Tomorrow was the skills portion of the weekend—the portion that Sam would be competing in—while the day after would be the big game. It still rankled something foul to Jack that Sam wouldn’t be competing in the game, as well. But despite the progress her participation in the league had made, the NHL still had a long way to go. Maybe he could fit that in somewhere during one of these lame press promotional interviews….

 

He and Teal’c were waiting at the mouth of the rink while Sam was held up behind them, beaming at the group of young girls and women—and a handful of young boys and teens—who eagerly chanted out her name and held out posters and _Carter_ jerseys for her to sign. The delight on Sam’s face as she realized the screaming group of fans was for _her_ made Jack grin and shoo her towards them. 

 

“Go on, Carter,” he said with a proud, indulgent smile. “Go greet the fanbase.”

 

When she rejoined them, a pleased pink flush—something that had been nearly permanent on her face since the announcement she would be participating in the weekend activities—was staining her cheeks. Jack grinned at his two teammates and threw an arm around each of them and led them around the rink towards the players’ area where they would meet the rest of their All-Star teammates, as well as the opposition. 

 

“C’mon, campers. Let’s go meet. And greet. And mingle.”

 

For the most part, Jack knew the players competing over the weekend. He’d been in the league long enough that he’d developed a report and relationship with almost all of the players in the league. He nodded his head and greeted Skaara, one of the young rookies who he had taken under his wing a few years ago and who had developed into a leader all his own. 

 

Jack was in the middle of handing Carter and Teal’c a couple of longnecks and introducing them to his buddy Thor, the small but fiercely scrappy captain of the Asgard, when Henry Hayes, the president of the NHL approached them with a wide grin and a firm handshake for them all. 

 

“Well, well, well! Samantha Carter, you are the talk of the weekend, I must say,” President Hayes said with a fatherly, good-natured look. “I was just talking to someone who said he knew you from your Olympic days? Jonas Hansen? He was around here somewhere—Oh! There he is. Coach Hanson! Over here!”

 

Jack felt Carter tense beside him, the color from her cheeks draining to a stark white. He caught Teal’c’s eye over the top of her head and both men crowded in a little closer to Sam’s side. The name was familiar to Jack—not just because he’d read about Hanson’s appointment as head coach of the Anaheim Avnil—but because he remembered a night in a bar with a tipsy Samantha Carter leaning in close to him and telling him about a former fiancee who turned out to not be the man she thought. 

 

His right hand reaches for hers, just a subtle movement and gesture, the back of his fingers brushing over the back of her hand. Her jaw flexes and her chin juts forward as a man with sandy blonde hair and an arrogant expression comes to stop in front of them, cool eyes surveying them before lighting up and settling on Carter.

 

Beside them, President Hayes is still talking, making introductions and the like when Hanson interrupts him. “Oh, I’m quite familiar with Samantha here.”

 

Both Jack and Teal’c bristle at the tone and Jack decides then and there he’s going to find a way to pound the shit out of Jonas Hanson—on or off the ice, he doesn’t care so long as it happens. 

 

“Yes, yes! I was just telling Samantha here that we were delighted to have her join the league. We’re quite pleased with the new audience she’s bringing to our organization and we can’t wait to see how she performs this weekend.”

 

“I admit, I can’t wait to see her in action either, Mr. Hayes. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Samantha _perform_ ,” Hanson says with a leer. “Hopefully she’ll be up to the task.”

 

Jack is ready to step between Carter and this jerk and tell him exactly what Carter can do and where he can shove it when Sam’s voice rings out clear and cool between them.

 

“I think you’ll find I’m more than up to it, Jonas.”

 

There’s an awkward silence that descends over them as Sam and Jonas maintain eye contact, Jack and Teal’c fight the urge to drag Hanson outside behind the arena dumpsters, and Hayes looks between all four of them curiously. 

 

Breaking eye contact with Carter, Hanson turns to Jack, ignoring Teal’c completely—another asshole move—and tilts his head. “And Jack O’Neill. Well, who doesn’t know you? One of the oldest players in the league. And of course, that terrible tragedy with your little boy—“

 

At this, Hayes steps between the two group with a hand on Hanson’s shoulder, even as all three members of the Stargates make a move towards Jonas with their hands clenched and fire in their eyes. 

 

“Yes, well, as I said,” Hayes interrupted hastily, eager to break them up. “We all look forward to seeing what you can do this weekend, Samantha. Jack, Teal’c, we look forward to your performances as well. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

 

Jack watched as Hanson followed after the league president reluctantly, turning over his shoulder and giving Sam a wink. 

 

“Carter, make sure you burn a hole in the ice tomorrow. I don’t want to see that guy’s face ever again.” 

 

Sam drained the beer in her hand and tossed the glass bottle into a nearby trashcan, the bottle cracking and shattering with the force of her throw. 

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

_______________________

 

The knock at his hotel door later that night was not a surprise. Since their run-in with Jonas Hanson, Carter had been unusually quiet and pensive. The press interview was a joint affair, all three Stargates members answering question after question about their plans for the weekend, their level of excitement for the All-Star weekend, and their hopes for the post-season. 

 

Instead of her usual endearing self, Sam answered the questions perfunctorily and succinctly. Between her and Teal’c’s careful, one-word answers, Jack found himself on an almost manic high, turning up the humor and charm to an almost unsustainable level. She’d then excused herself quickly after an equally quiet dinner, claiming she needed time to gather herself up mentally and to get an early night before the skills challenge the next day. 

 

The woman standing in his hotel doorway though, was not the tough, no-nonsense player he’d grown accustomed to seeing almost every day. Instead, Jack was reminded painfully of their night at the bar after the disastrous photoshoot and interview with Kinsey. She was soft and feminine in her sweats and Stargates shirt, hair tousled gently, and eyes dark and wide with just the hint of intoxication. 

 

“Oh, Carter,” he said with a sigh, opening the door wider and letting her step in. She blew past him in a wave of vanilla and strawberry and Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath, closing the door softly behind him. 

 

“I have to win,” she started without preamble, already pacing up and down the length of his hotel room. Jack plopped down on the edge of his bed and followed the path she traced. 

 

“Is this about Jonas?” 

 

“No! Well, yes. Maybe. I don’t know. God, Jack, there’s this _pressure_ sitting right here.” She pressed a hand to her chest and looked at him wildly. He was beginning to think she may have had more than her fair share of liquor out of the mini fridge. 

 

“It’s those little girls out there and my father watching at home and Jonas Hanson and—“

 

Jack stood and intercepted Carter’s pacing, putting his hands on her shoulders and stopping her in the middle of the room. She kept her head down, strands of blonde hair falling over her forehead and ears and hiding her face from him.

 

He curled his finger beneath her chin and pushed her face up to meet his, surprised to see her eyes watery. In the almost year he’d gotten to know her, he’d never seen her so much as shed a tear over an upcoming game or a loss. She was a player through and through—just like he was—and she took the wins, losses, and challenges of the game on the chin like everyone else. 

 

“Hey,” he said, voice low and soothing as if trying to tame a wild, skittish horse. “This is nothing. It’s a _skills challenge_ , Sam. It’s nothing you haven’t done a thousand and one times at practice. You’re gonna wipe the floor with all of them, but especially Jonas Hanson’s man, you got that?”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

He scoffed. “Carter, you’ve been to the Olympics. More than once. You’re gonna kill out there. And if you don’t? Big deal. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re a damn fine player. When you leave the ice, you’re still you and Hanson is still a gigantic turd blossom and that’s that.”

 

Sam let out a watery laugh at _turd blossom_ and Jack beamed at her, glad that he could make her laugh, even for a moment. 

 

“You don’t need me to tell you this, but I’ll say it anyway: Sam, you’re one of the best players I’ve ever had the good fortune to play with. And Teal’c and I are gonna be in the front row tomorrow cheering you on. All you can do is go out there and skate. That’s it. Forget about any pressures, forget about Hanson and skate. Just _skate_.”

 

He squeezed her shoulders and slid his hands down the length of her arms, fingers wrapping loosely around her wrists. Sam nodded once and took a deep shuddering breath, swaying slightly. 

 

“C’mere,” he said softly, tugging her forward and into his arms. She came willingly, molding herself to his chest and body like she was designed to slot into his arms. Her head fit perfectly into the crook of his shoulder and her arms, so strong and delicate, wrapped firmly around his waist, pressing him closer against her. 

 

His nose brushed along her hair, breathing in the scent of her, before ducking and hiding his face into the curve of her neck. He rubbed his hands up and down her back comfortingly, softly. 

 

“You gonna give Teal’c this pep talk and hug, too, Captain?”

 

He laughed and pulled back, brushing his fingers along the curve of her cheek and tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Her blue eyes sparkled at him teasingly and he was once again struck by just how beautiful she was. 

 

“No, Carter. You’re special.”

 

It was supposed to come out teasing. It was supposed to break the strange tension that had fallen over them both—the same tension that had followed them around since he’d lied and told her he hadn’t remembered their kiss at the bar, the same tension that zinged to life when he wiped away a smear of cream cheese off her bottom lip. 

 

Instead, it came out earnest and like a confession. 

 

Sam sucked in a breath and her eyes darted down to his mouth, focusing and lingering there. He felt her hands tighten into the fabric of his shirt at the small of his back and she shuffled forward, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. 

 

“Sam,” he says warningly, eyes dipping to her mouth as well, watching the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip contemplatively.

 

It dawns on him the situation they’re in: a hotel room away from prying eyes and paparazzi, a weekend away from their team, and explicit instructions from Hammond to relax. 

 

And he’s so damn tired of pretending he doesn’t care about her, that he doesn’t think about her every day, that he doesn’t want her. 

 

“I still think about that night at O’Malley’s,” she confesses, voice low. “You said you don’t remember but—“

 

“I remember.”

 

She looks at him, startled, before her lips curve into a smile, her fingers rubbing circles at the small of his back. He can feel the heat of her through his thin t-shirt. 

 

“Tell me why you lied.”

 

This is wrong, he thinks. This is a conversation that couldn’t and shouldn’t be happening. But she’s in his arms and _looking_ at him like she needs him, needs this, and he can’t resist.

 

“I thought you were going to let me down easy the next day. And I—I want to protect you, Sam. I don’t want to be the reason your career gets derailed.”

 

She tilts her head to the side and considers him before pursing her lips. He stands there, his hands settled on her hip, and waiting for her next words. Perhaps they shouldn’t be having this conversation now, not on the eve of her first All-Star weekend and—

 

“How about you let _me_ make the decisions about my career?”

 

And before he can nod and agree and say _absolutely_ , Samantha Carter pushes herself up on her tiptoes, curls her hands into his shirt more firmly, and presses her lips to his. 

 

It’s nothing like the kiss they shared at O’Malley’s. 

 

Then, they had been drunk and everything felt blurred and hazy, a little soft and dulled by alcohol, rushed and fast and soaking up as much of each other as they could in the few precious moments they had stolen for themselves. 

 

Now, though, Jack sighs and sinks into the kiss and hauls her against him, gathering her up in his arms. He takes his time licking against the seam of her mouth and tangling his tongue with hers, exploring the sharp points of her teeth and the soft, slippery cavern of her mouth. 

 

Her hand slips beneath his shirt, fingertips pressing against the base of his spine, causing his hips to jerk forward. They both groan into the kiss and Jack fights every urge to walk her back the few steps to the bed and pin her beneath him, spread her out and show her exactly what he wants to do to her. 

 

Sam gives as good as she gets, hands wandering up from his back to tangle into his hair, tugging at the short strands at the base of his neck and nails scraping over his scalp. He shivers and grins against her, letting her direct the kiss. She nips at his bottom lip once then twice, before sweeping her tongue over the bruised flesh. 

 

Jack breaks the kiss first, leaning his forehead against hers. He can feel her heart beating against her rib cage and now that he knows she wants him as much as he wants her, he can’t stop himself from getting more.

 

He ducks his head and presses a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses to her cheek, her eyebrow, her forehead, along her jaw and the tip of her nose. She sighs and laughs softly at his antics and something hot and important and heavy settles against his chest, against his heart. 

 

Whatever this is—whatever becomes of them—it is everything. 

 

“Now what?” she asks, playing with the hem of his t-shirt and looking up at him from beneath dark, lowered lashes. 

 

He considers her for a moment—considers her career and his, the upcoming All-Star weekend and post-season, and what lies beyond. And then he grins and shrugs, pressing another kiss to her temple and smoothing his hands over her back and hip, pulling her hands from his back and tangling their hands together. 

 

“Now I walk you to your hotel room and you get a good night’s sleep and kick ass tomorrow.”

 

“And then?”

 

“And then when we get back home, we have dinner and we figure this out.”

 

Sam grins at him and squeezes their hands. “Okay,” she says softly. 

 

“Okay,” he echoes, eyes dipping back down to her lips, the urge to kiss her again flaring within him.

 

It’s twenty minutes more—twenty minutes of wandering hands, sharp gasps, bruising kisses, and nipping teeth—before Sam finds her way back to her hotel room. 

 

________________

 

In the end, Sam doesn’t win. She places third in the puck-handling portion of the weekend and sixth in the speed-skating part. It’s a fair fight amongst all the players and she doesn’t begrudge the outcome at all. 

 

But she _does_ beat Jonas Hanson’s Avnil player—Conner something or other—in both skills challenges and that’s more than enough of a win for her. She watches the leaderboard with satisfaction and doesn’t bother looking over at Jonas. He is a part of a closed chapter in her life and it’s not worth her time or energy to gloat. 

 

It is, however, worth it to Jack. 

 

Jack, who sat in the front row of the arena sporting a Stargates _Carter_ jersey, and cheering loudly alongside Teal’c and the rest of the crowd. Jack, who whooped and hollered and pounded his hands against the heavy-duty plastic barrier against the ice in celebration as her name settled amongst the top players. 

 

Jack, who stuck his tongue out at Jonas and screwed up his face in mocking, yelling out, “Better luck next time, Hanson!”

 

And at the end of the day, when Jack’s hand slips beneath her sweaty jersey and his lips brush over her ear as he tells her how proud he is of her, it’s more than enough of a win for her.

 

She’s taking something much more precious than a trophy home.


	15. we've waited long enough

The rest of the All-Star weekend was a blur in Jack’s memory. He remembered being out on the ice and having fun, trying to pull trick shots and passes that he hadn’t tried since he and Charlie skated together on the frozen lake by the house. He remembered getting slammed against the barrier and hearing his knee pop and click painfully, making skating the rest of the game nearly impossible. 

 

But what Jack _did_ remember clearly was Sam sitting in the front row in the place he had been during her skills competition, wildly cheering him and Teal’c on. He remembered the way she was leaning against the concrete wall outside the locker room with a tentative smile on her face, waiting for him. 

 

They had walked out of the arena side by side, shoulders bumping into each other accidentally-on-purpose and exchanging coy smiles, and ducked into the backseat of an Uber back to the hotel. They’d ordered room service and ordered a stupidly expensive movie that they barely _actually_ watched. Instead, Sam had stolen fries off his plate and he’d flicked water from his glass at her in retribution. 

 

While the movie played in the background, they pushed the empty room service plates outside the door before laying down on the bed, facing each other, and talked softly. Hockey, naturally, was their conversation crutch before drifting into topics like which worn paperback was currently stowed away in Jack’s duffel bag and which podcast Sam was listening to these days. 

 

He reached across the small space between them and brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek and jaw. She closed her eyes and sighed out softly, nuzzling her face into his touch. 

 

“Hey, Carter?”

 

She grinned at the continued use of her last name. “Yeah, Jack?”

 

“When we get back home, do you, maybe, wanna have dinner? With me? Uh, sometime?” He closed his eyes and inwardly groaned at the stuttered, awkward way his request had come out. He used to be much smoother at this. 

 

“About time you asked,” she teased, reaching up and taking his hand from her face and tangling their hands together and resting them between their bodies on the bed. 

 

“Cool,” he breathed out. “Uh, hey, Carter? I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”

 

“Oka— _mmph._ ”

 

And Jack _definitely_ remembered the way he’d rolled on top of her, their hands still tangled together, as he kissed her softly, tongue teasing open her mouth and working to draw out every moan, sigh, and gasp he could from her. 

 

Before things went too far on the road, she’d pulled away from him looking mussed and flushed and he wanted nothing more than to pull her back down on top of him, put his hands back in her hair, and trace the jut of her hips peeking out from beneath her sweats. 

 

Instead, she’d kissed him softly while the movie credits rolled and wished him good night before climbing off of him and slipping out of his hotel room, leaving him hard and wanting and dazed on the bed. 

As he turned out the light and slipped beneath the covers, he couldn’t wait for the plane ride home tomorrow. It was one step closer to a date—his _first date_ —with Carter. 

 

_________________

 

Despite having had some truly awesome plane rides in his career—first class with champagne and full service and those little gold-wrapped chocolates—nothing, Jack decided, compared to flying with Samantha Carter asleep on his shoulder next to him, her hand tucked safely in his and her soft exhalations puffing against his neck. 

 

Teal’c on his left just looked between them and at their joined hands before nodding and smiling at them both. “About time, O’Neill,” he intoned. It made both he and Sam flush in embarrassment but Sam didn’t pull away, just tightened her hold on his hand and stuck her tongue out at the goalie. 

 

He stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist and felt something tight loosen in his chest. He’d been so worried about Sam wanting to hide this—whatever _this_ was—between them. They still needed to talk about what, exactly, they were doing here. But the fact that she wasn’t hiding, wasn’t running, warmed him. 

 

After they landed and made their way through the airport with their carryons slung over their shoulders, they said their goodbyes to Teal’c who was greeted at the gate by his own family. 

 

Sam knocked his shoulder with hers and he looked down at her with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“I think you said something about dinner?”

 

Warmth flooded his chest again and he nodded, the back of his hand brushing over hers softly. 

 

“Let’s go, Carter.” 

 

_________________

 

The drive from the airport to his place was comfortably quiet, the radio turned to his favorite local station that played soft jazz and classical music. Sam had closed her eyes about half-way through the ride and was dozing on and off in the passenger seat, comfortable in letting him lead her home. He found it hard to keep his eyes on the road and not on the way the sun against the bright blonde of her hair. 

 

As his truck rumbled into the driveway, he felt a thrill low in his stomach as he remembered the last time they were together in his truck at his place. He’d wanted her to stay with him so desperately that night—consequences be damned. He hoped tonight would remedy the mistake of letting her go almost a year ago. 

 

“Sam,” he whispered softly, shaking her awake. She blinked sleepily at him and offered a lazy smile as she stretched in the front seat, exposing a patch of skin between her shirt and pants. He swallowed hard and slipped from the truck to gather his and Sam’s duffel bags, swinging both over his shoulder, and joining Sam on the other side of the truck, guiding her up the winding sidewalk of his home with a hand on the small of her back. 

 

“Okay,” he said, a touch of awkwardness creeping into his voice. “I’ve got a couple of bags of salad and some chicken or we can order in or—“

 

“Jack,” she interrupted, taking the duffel bags from his shoulder and dropping them by the front of the door. He spared a look for the sight at his feet: their shoes and the straps of their duffel bags tangled together. 

 

“I didn't actually want dinner,” she admits softly, hand coming to rest at the center of his chest, fingernails scratching lightly through the fabric of his _Stargates_ shirt. 

 

“Oh,” Jack managed to get out before Sam was pushing herself up on her tiptoes and wrapping he arms around his neck, tugging him down against her mouth. 

 

He groaned at the feel of her pressed flush against him and he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around her waist and hauling her even closer, turning swiftly on his heel and pressing her against the nearest wall. She gasped into his mouth and her nails scratched against the nape of his neck as she buried her fingers in his hair, tugging softly and directing his mouth to the curve of her neck.

 

His mouth slid over the pulse beneath her skin, licking and sucking and nipping in time with her rapidly beating heart. Everything felt hot and heady and rushed and he worked to get his hand beneath her shirt, groaning low in his throat at the feel of her warm skin against his palm. 

 

But reason filtered into the fog of his desire-addled mind and he broke away, panting, and pressed his forehead to hers, gasping out, “Wait, _wait.”_

 

She whimpered and tried to hook her leg around his waist in encouragement. He palmed her thigh and pressed his hips against hers for a moment, groaning at the damp, hot heat he found waiting for him between her legs. 

 

“ _Jack,_ ” she begged, grasping at his shoulders. 

 

“Sam, _please._ As much as I want to take you to bed right now.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh, not quite believing he was stopping at all. “And believe me, I _really_ want that. I think we should talk. Make sure we’re on the same page, right?”

 

Sam rolled her eyes but pulled her leg from his hip and slid her hands down to his hips, tugging him forward and keeping him close. 

 

“What’s there to talk about, Jack? Do you want this?”

 

She gestured between them, the back of her hand smacking a little harder than strictly necessary against his chest. 

 

“ _Yes,_ of course I do, Sam. But it’s not that easy. We’re teammates. It’s…” He searched for the right word. “It’s complicated, to use exactly the right word.”

 

She tilted her head at him like she was trying to decipher a particularly tricky formation. 

 

“Are you going to treat me differently out on the ice if we start seeing each other?”

 

“What! No! Of course, not. Sam, I—“

 

“And,” she continued, cutting him off. “Are you going to use anything from our personal lives against me during games or practice? If we fight here, are you going to punish me on the ice?”

 

He felt his eyes widen in indignation. “Of _course not._ Sam, how could you—“

 

“ _And,_ ” she stressed, once more interrupting him. “Are you going to flaunt our relationship in the locker room or betray my trust in any way?”

 

“Y’know, Carter, I’m a little concerned you don’t know me at all. How you could think I’d ever—“

 

Soft lips pressed against his and he sighed against her mouth, gripping her hips tightly. 

 

“Jack,” Sam said, her words almost muffled against his lips. “I _trust_ you. You’re not gonna twist this up and make it complicated. You’re going to treat me with respect and we’re going to respect the boundaries between our personal lives and the Stargates.”

 

He stroked her cheek and jaw and pushed an errant stray of hair behind her ear. “I just don’t want you to regret this when the media gets ahold of _us_ as a story. I don’t want your career to suffer because of this. Because of me.”

 

She smiled at him. “I thought we agreed we’d leave my career-related decisions to me.”

 

“We did,” he conceded, brow still furrowed with worry. “But I can wait, Sam. I’ve only got a season or two left in my knees and then I’ll be off the Stargates. I can wait for you.”

 

Sam rolled her eyes at him. “That’s very noble, but I have no intention of waiting.” She rocked her hips against his and he groaned, falling forward and bracketing his arms on either side of her head, burying his face into the crook of her neck. 

 

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and stroked the soft, fine hairs of his nape. Brushing her lips over his ear, she whispered, “Are we on the same page now?”

 

He nuzzled against her and lifted his head just enough to nip at the lobe of her ear and respond back, “Hell, yes.”

 

“Take me to bed, Jack,” she breathed out, rolling her body against his and allowing her palms to roam over the broad expanse of his back and the narrow taper of his hips. He shuddered and stepped back, tangling their hands together, and pulling her from the wall and down the long hallway towards his bedroom, all doubts fleeing.

 

“We’ve waited long enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhh i admit this is a shameless filler ep to get us from Point A to Point Smut. thanks for sticking around guys! i think we're in the homestretch, just a few more chapters to go!


	16. finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the rating change//here be smut.

The journey from the front door to his bedroom was fraught with perils he had never noticed before. Then again, he’d never made the journey with a more than ready and eager Samantha Carter frantically pulling at his clothes and stopping every few minutes to press him against the nearest wall.

 

It seemed they were magnets, drawn to every rickety side table and every framed poster and photograph. With each stop against said table or wall, they left a wake of clothes and rattled frames now hanging crookedly on the wall.

 

He groaned as her hands slipped beneath his _Stargates_ shirt and tugged it up and over his head. The material got caught around his head and he heard her muffled laughter as she worked to pull the shirt from him. 

 

She tossed the shirt over her shoulder before molding herself to him and reaching up to smooth his hair where it stuck up at all angles. 

 

For a moment, he just let himself hold her against him, relishing her searching fingers in his hair, her nails scraping along his scalp and drawing a low, deep groan from him. His long fingers stroked up and down her bare back (her shirt and bra long since discarded somewhere down the long hallway towards his bedroom in the sudden, mad frenzy of freedom that allowed him to touch her this way). 

 

They stood outside his open bedroom door, bare from the waist up, and breathed together, exchanging soft, open-mouthed kisses to the other’s temple, neck, forehead, and mouth, relishing the moment that they had both longed for for so long.

 

“C’mon,” he said softly, taking her by the hand and leading her into his bedroom. Her hand tightened around his—in excitement, in anticipation, in nervousness, he didn’t know which.

 

“One sec,” he murmured, leaving her in the center of the room as he made his way to the tables on either side of his bed, flicking on the bedside lamps and dousing them in a warm, welcoming orange-yellow glow.

 

Turning his attention back to her, he stopped dead, mouth parting in awe. He hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at her in the darkness of his bedroom hallway. Besides, he was too busy using his hands to see and feel her, exploring her every curve and bump and categorizing which press of his fingertips where made her shiver and gasp and jerk in his arms. 

 

But now, in the light of his bedroom, he saw her. 

 

Sam shifted slightly, hands coming up to cover her body, hiding herself from him self-consciously. “Life of a hockey player, right?” she joked, eyes darting to the side. 

 

Large, blossoming bruises covered almost every inch of her torso and upper arms. A particularly nasty purplish inkblot looking bruise covered most of the ribcage on her left side while yellowish and green, mostly healed bruises dotted her hips and biceps. 

 

He came to a stop in front of her, pulling her arms from her chest to expose her breasts to him. Her breasts were mostly unmarred, save for a few smaller, almost imperceptible bruises in the last fading stages of healing. 

 

“Sam,” he breathed out, fingertips shaking slightly and reaching for her, tracing the bruises tenderly, gingerly. She moaned softly as he pressed at one of the smaller bruises her breasts before ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the tender skin. 

 

“I know it’s not exactly sexy to look like this, but…” She trailed off shrugging helplessly and meeting his eyes for the first time since the lights had come on in the bedroom. 

 

“Not sexy? _God_ , Sam. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time. Besides,” he added with a grin, eyes and fingertips tracing reverently over her body. “We match.”

 

He took her hand and pressed it to his chest and watched in satisfaction as her eyes widened and then darkened as she took in the sight of his body. Like her, his upper torso was riddled with bruises and abrasions. They had matching purple blooms on their left hip where they had been body checked violently into the barrier a few games ago. 

 

Her fingers danced over his skin and he worked hard to stay still under her inspection, letting her do whatever she pleased. And then she bent her head and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right on his sternum, and let her tongue flick at the warm skin there.

 

The gesture—so tender and so arousing—broke him.

 

With a groan, he hauled her to him, hands tight on her hips. She gasped at the feeling of his hands pressing against the sensitive, bruised skin, a mix of pain and pleasure. Sam hissed her delight into his mouth, kissing him fiercely and slipping her tongue into his mouth, stroking over his tongue. She pulled back and nipped at his bottom lip, grinning when Jack’s hands wandered beneath the waistband of her sweatpants and cupped her comfortably, holding her against him.

 

She pushed him back towards the bed, grinning as his knees hit the edge of the bed and sent him sprawling backwards with an _oof._

 

“Hey, no illegal hits, Carter,” he teased as she leaned over him and straddled him, a knee on either side of his hips.

 

She wrinkled her nose and braced her hands on his chest, absentmindedly stroking the greying chest hair there.

 

“Don’t tell me that using hockey jargon actually works for you.”

 

He surged up on his elbows and pulled her down the rest of the way, slotting his mouth over hers and kissing her deeply. Then, without warning, he rolled them so she was pinned beneath him, and he pulled away, lips red and flushed. 

 

“I don’t know, it seems to be working right now,” he said smugly, ducking his head and working his mouth over the tendons of her neck, finding her pulse and latching onto it, sucking and grazing his teeth over the newly marked skin. 

She groaned and arched up off the bed, pressing her chest against his and gasping at the sensation of his coarse, wiry chest hair brushing against her sensitive nipples. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer against her. 

 

“Jack? Shut up.”

 

He murmured his agreement and flexed his hips against her body, pressing his erection between her legs where she was damp and searingly hot even through her pants. Kissing his way down her body, stopping to plant open-mouthed kisses at every dip and valley, detouring to her breasts and sucking each nipple into his mouth, the broadside of his tongue swirling and flicking at each point over and over again until she was panting and writing beneath him, chanting his name and clawing her nails against his back. 

 

He pressed a kiss to her abdomen and either side of her hips, his teeth grazing at the jut of bone. And then, with no ceremony, he tugged at her sweatpants, pulling them and her underwear off in one, mostly fluid moment. 

 

Jack stood and surveyed the woman splayed out for him in his bed, completely bare and absolutely beautiful. Almost a year ago, he never thought they would end up _here._

 

But god, he was so glad they did. 

 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, covering her body with his again and slipping a hand between her legs, groaning at the slick, hot wetness he found waiting for him. 

 

At the first stroke of his fingers against her opening, Sam yelped and jerked up against his hand, demanding more. He kissed each gasp from her lips, swallowing them down as eagerly as if he were a dying man in the desert, thirsty and desperate for her. 

 

With the pads of his fingertips, he pressed carefully but insistently at her clit, pushing and pressing and rubbing in tight, quick circles. 

 

“ _Jack,”_ she panted, rolling her hips and seeking more. Her lips latched onto the patch of skin she could find—his shoulder—and sucked and kissed his freckled, tanned shoulders. 

 

He concentrated on bringing her to the precipice of pleasure and, just when he could feel her entire body tense, he slipped his fingers down to her entrance and entered her with two fingers.

 

Sam sunk her teeth into his shoulder before crying out his name and shuddering, coming on his fingers. Jack worked his fingers inside of her as she rode out her orgasm, slowly pumping in and out of her, curling his fingers and brushing against her walls enticingly. 

 

He kissed her softly as she came down from her high, keeping his fingers inside of her—unwilling to be parted from her warmth. She licked into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. 

 

So focused on the feel of her fingers in his hair and her body clutching around his fingers, he was startled when one of her hands slipped between their bodies and cupped his erection through his own pants and boxers, her thumb pressing against the head of his cock through the material. 

 

He jerked against her hand, thrusting into her hand with a groan, breaking their kiss and finally slipping his fingers free from her body. 

 

“My turn,” she murmured against his jaw, pressing a series of soft nips on the underside of his jaw, tongue flicking over the sandpapery feel of the day-old growth she found there. 

 

Together, they worked to pull his pants and boxers off and readjusted themselves further up onto the bed, his bedsheets rustling with their movements. The only sound to be heard were their gasps and moans as they touched each other freely, kissing and licking and sucking every inch of skin they had always fantasized about. 

 

Sam found herself on top once more and she rocked back against him, his erection pressing teasingly at her opening. The tip of his cock slipped inside of her and both groaned at the sensation. 

 

“Condom,” he gasped, one hand reaching for her breast, squeezing and massaging slightly, the other and rummaging blindly to his right, trying to find the box of condoms he kept in his bedside table. 

 

She ducked down and kissed him, distracting him, and rocking ever so slightly against the pressure of him inside of her, teasingly rocking back further and further. 

 

“Better hurry up,” she groaned. As Jack’s fingers finally triumphantly found a condom, Sam leaned down and wrapped her lips around one of his puckered nipples, sucking once before nipping lightly. 

 

“ _Fuck,”_ Jack said sharply, hips jerking up inside of her, slipping inside of her completely. Sam shivered and dug her nails into his shoulder, hissing in pain and pleasure. 

 

Jack rolled them over and pulled out, ripping at the condom’s packaging and quickly rolling the condom over his cock which was wet and smeared with her fluids and his own pre-cum. 

 

“Want you,” she murmured, looking up at him, her short blonde hair splayed out on his pillows. For a moment, Jack took in the sight of her among his sheets, splayed out and open for him, _wanting_ him in a way he had never thought possible. 

 

“Me too, Sam. God, me too.”

 

And then he was palming her thigh and spreading her open and pressing down into her and he was inside her, filling her up completely. She was so tight and hot around him and he almost came when she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back, and pulling him in deeper. 

 

He dropped his head into the crook of her neck, turning and pressing soft kisses there, giving them both a moment to adjust to the new sensation. 

 

“Move, Jack,” she begged, pressing her ankles into his back. “ _Please.”_

 

And then he was fucking her, a steady, pounding rhythm that left them panting and breathless and gasping. Her fingernails clawed at his shoulders and hips and chest, urging him on with her touch and words as she chanted his name and other litanies, begging him to never stop. 

 

All Jack could focus on was the way their bodies moved so naturally together, simultaneously pulling and pushing, clutching and releasing, nipping and kissing. As compatible as they were as teammates and friends, this was a new level of connection that he hadn’t had in a long, long time.

 

The feelings of overwhelming affection and arousal and tenderness bubbled up within him and he moved his palm from her thigh to between her legs, pressing at her clit as he pulled out of her, leaving her no relief or break from the onslaught of pleasure. 

 

“Gonna come,” she choked out, voice breathless.

 

“Yes,” he growled, gripping a handful of bedsheets near her head for support as he doubled his efforts in getting her to come for a second time that night, desperate to make this as good as it possibly could be for her. 

 

“With me,” she demanded, palming his ass and pushing him deeper inside of her. He nodded, delirious with the feel of her around him, clutching and clenching at his cock. 

 

In a few thrusts and well-timed presses of his thumb against her clit (and her thumb stroking over his nipples, tweaking and pulling in time with his own movements), she was orgasming once more, her walls clutching around him and demanding he follow after her. 

 

He came with a muffled groan of _Sam_ and spilled himself inside of her as she clutched at his shoulders and hips, fingers pressing into the bruises there. 

 

After, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, tongue licking up the sweat and salt he found there. 

  
“Be right back,” he murmured, pushing himself off of her, cock slipping free from the warmth of her body into the cold, unforgiving air.

 

He disappeared into the master bathroom attached to the bedroom and disposed of the condom, washed his hands, and grabbed a washcloth. After running it under the cool water of the sink and wringing it out, he returned to the bed where Sam was waiting for him, her hands wandering over her own body, still riding out the aftershocks of her orgasm.

 

He watched as her fingertips traced lazily over her nipples and breasts and then down between her legs, dragging her fingers through the still-sensitive flush. His mouth watered and he realized how badly he wanted to settle himself between her legs and lick at the heat there until she was coming around his tongue with her fingers in his hair.

 

With a shock of delight, he realized he _could_ do that. They didn’t have to do everything he’d ever wanted in one night. They had—potentially—the rest of their lives to do so. Sam _wanted_ him for more than just a one night stand.

 

“Here,” he murmured softly, slipping back into bed with her and dragging the damp washcloth between her legs, cleaning her up. She hummed her thanks and reached up to scratch her fingers through his hair—something he was learning she had an affinity for. 

 

Jack threw the now-dirty washcloth across the room in the direction of the hamper. The comforter had been pushed to the bottom of the bed and he leaned down to grab it and pull it up over their naked bodies. 

 

Sam curled against him, pillowing her head against his chest and slipping her arm over his waist. He pressed a soft, lazy kiss to the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair—sweat and citrus. 

 

As he drifted to sleep, the sounds of Sam’s even breathing lulling him into a peaceful, relaxed state, his hands absentmindedly tracing patterns over her bare back, Jack only had one thought.

 

_Finally_. 


	17. a future

It wasn’t the blaring sound of his alarm clock that woke him up the next morning. Instead, it was the warm weight of Samantha Carter crawling half-over his body and reaching over to slap at the offending alarm on his bedside table, grumbling and cursing softly under her breath. Jack smiled softly and stroked a warm palm over the expanse of her back as she collapsed on top of him grumpily, nuzzling under his chin.

 

“So I finally get to see the morning grump first hand,” he teased, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head.

 

All he got in response was a grunt and a warning dig of her nails against his side. He laughed and settled his hands more readily against her hips and back, absentmindedly running his fingers over her skin and drawing little sighs from her. 

 

“We don’t even have practice today,” she huffed out, lips brushing against his bare chest. “S’rude to set an alarm.”

 

“We have a team meeting at eight, remember?” he reminded her, palm slipping down over the swell of her ass and squeezing appreciatively. 

 

She groaned and wriggled against him, peering open one eye and looking up at him with interest as she felt his hardening cock against her thigh. He met her gaze without shame or embarrassment, just pressed up against her and squeezed her ass once more.

 

A smile curled the corners of her lips and she rocked against him again, drawing a sharp hiss form him. She walked her fingertips over his sides and chest before planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck, over his collarbones, and down his chest. 

 

“How long is your snooze?” she asked huskily, mouth working its way down his body, taking the detour here and there to dust kisses over bruises and licks over his ribs and the jut of his hipbones. 

 

“Seven minutes,” he gasped, fingers threading into her hair as she wriggled against him, traveling further and further down until her hot breath was ghosting over his cock and her hands were gripping his thighs.

 

She grinned up at him from her space between his legs and his hips jerked as she licked the tip of his cock teasingly. Her name came out as a husky, garbled plea. 

 

“Just enough time, then,” she said before her lips wrapped around him and they both lost all track of time after that. 

 

_____________

 

Later, Jack stood at the stove with pancakes bubbling happily in the cast iron pan in front of him and coffee percolating hot and strong on the countertop behind him. By all accounts, this morning would be no different than any other morning—he made coffee and pancakes for himself before every team meeting. There was a time in his life he made the same for Charlie and Sara, too. 

 

He had thought the days of cooking for others was behind him. 

 

Except today, he wasn’t alone.

 

At his back, Sam gathered their mugs, creamer, and sugar and set about fixing their morning coffee the way they both liked it. He had thought the days of someone else knowing how he took his coffee would be over, too.

 

He likes that Sam was proving him wrong at ever turn. It makes him huff with happiness, a soft puff of exhalation that his smile can’t stop. The kind of sound that erupts from deep within, raising up from toes to stomach to heart to mouth. 

 

Hands wrap around his waist and slip beneath his shirt to stroke over his belly. “What’s that sound for?” she asks, voice muffled against his cotton tee.

 

Jack flips the last pancake onto the plate beside him, adding it to the growing stack for the two of them, before killing the heat of the stove and turning to face her.

 

The words are right there in his throat: how he’s pretty fucking sure he’s in love with her, how he wants her to stay with him forever, how he wants to skate with her for this playoff run and help her win the giant silver Stanley Cup for her to hoist over her head, how he wants to cheer her on and take her home every day. 

 

But it feels too much and too soon so he ducks his head and kisses her soundly, tongue sweeping into her mouth briefly, before pulling away.

 

“I was thinking this is gonna be the best damn pancakes of your life, Carter.”

 

She smirks at him, head tilted to the side and eyes searching. He has a feeling if she looked hard enough, she’d see all the things he didn’t say anyway.

 

But she pinches his backside and kisses his chin before pushing him aside and making a grab for the plate of towering pancakes.

 

“Let’s eat then,” she tosses over her shoulder, carrying the pancakes and spare plates to the kitchen table. “Grab the coffee,” she orders, sliding into her favorite chair—the one she always occupied at team dinners. 

 

When she slides her bare feet into his lap under the table and moans around her forkful of pancake, Jack decides between that, the sun warming both of them, and the memory of her mouth wrapped around him, well, it’s the best damn morning he’s had in a long, long time. 

 

 

_____________

 

“So,” Jack said slowly, drawing the sound out. With a quick turn of his keys, the rumbling truck engine was silenced, leaving him and Sam in silence, staring at the players and staff only entrance to the arena. “How did you want to play this?”

 

Sam frowned at him, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Jack said, looking down and fiddling with his keys. “I know we’re, y’know, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted _them,”_ he gestured to the arena, presumably referencing the entire Stargates organization within, “to know, too. So, just thought I’d follow your lead.”

 

Sam bit her lip, trying not to laugh at the boyish expression on Jack’s face. “Jack, I didn’t really have any intention of hiding this from anyone. I mean, I don’t exactly want to walk into the briefing room holding hands and passing love notes to each other, but I’m not going out of my way to hide this, either.”

 

Jack watched as she took his hands in hers and he tried to not focus too much on how much more gnarled and veined his hands were compared to her smooth, soft hands. His knuckles had seen one too many ice brawls. 

 

“I know we haven’t talked too much about _how_ we’re exactly, feeling, but I’m kinda all in here, Jack. Have been for a while now.” She rubbed her thumb over each of his puckered veins and each mottled bruise on his knuckles. 

 

His heart pounded painfully in his chest and his stomach wrapped itself in knots at her words. The words—the same ones that he worked hard to swallow down earlier at breakfast—were clawing at his throat again.

 

“Jack?” she asked worriedly in the face of his overwhelmed silence. “God, I’m sorry. I thought you— _mmph_.”

 

His lips pressed to hers, hot and hard and desperate. She sighed and opened her mouth against his, hand clutching his. He pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed and breathing her in.

 

“Yes,” he said simply, his free hand stroking over her cheek. “Me, too.”

 

She grinned at him, fierce and bright and perfect. He kissed her again—just because he could, because he wanted to, because _she_ wanted him to do it. 

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this in front of the building though,” she murmured against his lips in between soft kisses. 

 

“Okay,” he agreed with a soft laugh, pressing another, final kiss to her lips. “I do think we should talk to the General, though.”

 

He didn’t give a damn what the press said about him, but the General had dragged him back out of retirement, entrusted him to lead this team to victory, and ultimately led him to Sam. He owed him honesty, if nothing else.

 

Sam nodded, squeezing his hands. “After the meeting?”

 

“After the meeting,” he confirmed. Something warm had settled over him, changed him in the last 24 hours. 

He now knew what Samantha Carter tasted like, what it sounded like when she panted his name and cried out for him as he brought her crashing over the edge of pleasure. He now knew that she was in— _all in._ This morning and last night wasn’t a fluke. He would get pancakes and coffee and kisses and sunshine and her terrible morning attitudes for as long as she wanted to stay with him.

 

And inside those double doors, he had a world class team at the ready. He had a team of friends—of _family_ —that would skate and fight and work as hard as he would for them. And they were going to win. He could feel it in his bones. 

 

Jack grinned at Sam and nodded his head towards the building and their future waiting for them—the future that they would tackle together. 

 

“Let’s go then, Carter.”

 

They clamored out of the cab and he tossed her the _Carter_ duffle bag that sat next to his _O’Neill_ bag in the bed of his truck. Side by side, their duffels slung over their shoulders and their hands brushing against each other with every stride, they walked into the arena and towards their future.

 

Together. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, i don't know what this chapter is and, frankly, that's okay! this story was pretty much wrapped up for me mentally but i wanted to at least see the season through. i have one more epilogue chapter to put up, detailing the playoff season. and then, after that, this bad boy is done. i have plans to keep writing in this universe--scenes and ideas that just didn't fit here. 
> 
> thanks for sticking around this long (i know i haven't been the most consistent updater or the most consistent storyteller). i'm aiming to have the last chapter up pretty soon. 
> 
> so thanks a million (and i'll save all the gushy thanks for the final chapter).


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